


Inbetween

by daisybelle



Series: Inbetween [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybelle/pseuds/daisybelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming back from death is one thing, restoring a friendship another. Sherlock wants everything back as it had been before, but it's not that easy. Sequel to "After the Fall". Post-Reichenbach. Reunion fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This is the sequel to "After the fall". It probably makes sense to read this first, but I think it should work as stand-alone.

It was late afternoon when John finally arrived at the graveyard. He had taken the day off, wanting this anniversary a private memento of his friend.

His best friend.

Sherlock Holmes.

It was one year since the detective had committed suicide, jumping from Barts' roof. And still John was struggling with it. Sherlock wouldn't do something like this. It was completely out of character. And yet he had seen him jump, had not felt any pulse on the body when he finally reached him. He knew Sherlock had a confrontation with Moriarty on this rooftop. But Moriarty had been dead before Sherlock jumped. John just wished he knew why, wished he knew what Moriarty had told him, what had convinced him to kill himself. He guessed that was the question which would trouble him for the rest of his life. This and the image of Sherlock's lifeless body on the pavement.

He hadn't slept last night, once again kept awake by 'what ifs'. What if he hadn't left the lab? What if he had said something different on the phone? In the end he had decided to go for a walk. He ended up at the college where he had shot the cabbie on their first case. From that on he simply walked through London, visiting places of old cases – the South Bank shore of the Thames, the Hickman gallery, the tunnels where he and Sarah had been held hostage, he had even walked by Buckingham Palace. His last destination had been the lab. It seemed appropriate since this was the first and the last place he had spoken to Sherlock face to face. His day had filled him with memories of Sherlock alive, brilliant and annoying and apart from the strange incident with Molly, it had been almost perfect. As perfect as any day without Sherlock could be.

With practiced ease he swallowed the lump in his throat and entered the graveyard to spent the rest of the day with his friend. The path to the grave was by now so familiar, every tuft of grass, every root, every step engrained in his muscle memory that his feet found it automatically. As usual he just stood in front of the tombstone, staring at the golden letters and seeing his reflection in the black surface. During the first few visits, he had hoped for a miracle, that his friend would magically appear behind him, but he had realised the disappointment made every visit worse. And Ella had talked him out of it.

Sometimes he felt the urge to explain his presence to Sherlock, but not today. Even the Consulting Detective would understand today's visit. Although he would probably frown at the display of sentiment. The thought of it made John almost smile.

But the almost-smile faded away like most of his smiles still did. It took him a while to notice the change in his reflection. It took him even longer to recognise the addition to his own. A familiar reflection. So, so aching familiar.

It couldn't be!

It couldn't!

It wasn't possible!

How?

John squeezed his eyes shut, but when he opened them again, the reflection became larger. More than anything else he wanted to turn around and look and be sure, but the frightening prospect that he was imagining things left him petrified.

The touch of a warm hand – _oh, so warm_ – startled him. Alive. _So alive_. A faint movement.

And then he heard the whisper:

"I'm not dead, John."

It was the one sentence he wanted to hear for every damn second during the past year, but he had known it couldn't be. His knees got weak and if it hadn't been for the body behind him he would have dropped to the ground. But long arms encircled him, an embrace.

He saw those long fingers on his chest. Fingers that had once tortured a violin or mixed some dangerous acids. John covered those fingers with his hands, finding somehow the strength to search for a pulse.

A steady beat.

He kept his fingers there, concentrating on each beat, listening to the breathing behind him and trying to match his own ragged breath to this. Once again he closed his eyes, let his other senses take over. He still touched the wrist of the other man. He felt the other man's body behind him, felt the warmth where they were pressed together. When he managed to inhale a deep breath he smelled the mixture of woods and grass and earth and _Sherlock _. John had never been able to describe the unique smell of his best friend, but he could identify it out of any other scent. Somehow breathing in Sherlock helped him to finally relax in the embrace. John didn't know how long they were standing there in this silent embrace. Neither man spoke, as if words might destroy this.__

In the end it was a buzzing phone which woke him from this state of protected wonderfulness.

His buzzing phone. It took John a while to register to noise and a little bit longer to finally realise it was in fact his phone that made this noise. Probably Nick or Greg – they had more or less forced him to promise not to turn his phone off. Although he had expected they would wait longer until they checked on him.

Long pale hands retrieved the phone from his front pocket and presented it to him. Something about those hands holding his phone felt wrong. With a small frown the doctor realised that usually those hands had demanded a mobile phone from him. It felt strange the other way around. The caller ID showed it was none of his friends. It was the hospital.

"Dr. Watson?" Doctor Harrison's urgency left barely room for an affirmative noise before he continued: "Thank god, I finally got you. I know it's you day off, but I need you. I really need you. There is a little gang war going on in Camden and they got civilians involved. Police says something about three casualties and dozens injured. I need someone experienced with, well, war wounds. Can you come?"

The little rush of adrenaline starting because of the agitation in the usually calm voice of Dr. Harrison cleared John's head enough to simply answer:

"I'll be there as fast as I can."

"Thank you." The relief was unmistakable.

John rang off. Sherlock had released him during the phone call, but John could still feel where his body had been pressed against his. When the doctor turned around he saw the question in those grey eyes. God, he was alive. Adrenaline, shock, euphoria made him dizzy and he needed a moment to focus.

"I need to go, the hospital needs me."

Those bottomless eyes scanned his face for a second. Whatever they saw it seemed to answer the questions in his brilliant head.

"Then you should go."

John had thought he would never hear this voice again.

"Just don't …"

John hesitated a moment, unsure what else to say. Don't die again, don't disappear, don't leave me alone, don't jump from a rooftop. _All of this_.

But apparently Sherlock hasn't lost his ability to read his friend's mind.

"I won't."

With a nod John turned to the entrance of the graveyard, only to return after a few steps. He laid one hand on his friend's chest, closing his eyes momentarily while feeling the steady heartbeat below his fingers. When he opened his eyes again, grey ones darkened with some unreadable mix of emotion watched him and a pale hand covered his fingers.

"You need to go."

This time John managed the walk back on the street and to hail a cab. His head swirled with feelings and questions and it took remarkably will power not to ask the cab to go back. It helped that the cabbie had the radio on, with reports from the gang war. The shocked voice of the reporter, the background noises speaking of violence brought John back from his own shock and memories of Afghanistan. Slowly he calmed down and by the time he arrived at St. Mary's he had put all thoughts of Sherlock aside, mentally preparing for a war scenario.

It was a war scenario. Not as bad as Afghanistan – nobody was aiming a gun at him and the medical equipment was better – but that was about it. John almost literally waded through blood, while he operated on gun wounds, flicked stab wounds and straightened broken bones. He changed his doctor's coat twice and lost count how often he changed in OP scrubs. He rushed from patient to patient, calmed them and ordered the nurses around. And only sometimes, in very little moments of calm, he allowed some of the euphoria bubbles in his chest to the surface. Sherlock was not dead. But those moments were never long, because there was always another patient waiting for him. And he continued to cut through human flesh and sew it back together, to calm patients with his voice and painkillers, to tend bruises and dry tears.

Almost 16 hours after he had left the graveyard John found himself sitting on one of the stairs of the hospital with a coffee in one hand and his mobile phone in the other. The flood of incoming patients had stopped by now and some of the other doctors took care of the regular visitors to the A&E. He would only do one round on his Post-OP cases before going home to bed. He was exhausted, yesterday seemed like a lifetime away. The wave of euphoria bubbles when he thought of Sherlock had stopped somewhat ago, drowned in blood and tears and despair. And now everything felt like a strange dream. Like one of those he had during the past year only to wake up and realising that it hadn't been real. Every time when the memory set in, the pain was almost too much to bear. But this time the pain hadn't come. Although it was not enough to convince him.

His fingers found the numbers easily as if eager to prove that Sherlock's memory was still constantly with him. It rang once before the familiar baritone answered.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Relief washed through him while he leaned weakly on the railing. This was real.

"You're not dead."

John heard the small smile in his friend's answer: "I'm not dead."


	2. Chapter 2

That was unexpected.

Sherlock Holmes watched his friend go away, leaving the graveyard without one glance back. During the past year he hadn't spent much time thinking about this moment, this reunion with John, but in the rare times he had he certainly hadn't imagined being left alone. He had imagined a variety of scenarios – all eqally probable – since from their first meeting the doctor had the ability to surprise him. It was often irritating that John seemed so predictable most of the times and then did something astonishing, but than the detective had never been able to complete understand the actions of his friend. It was one of the reasons the detective was so fond of the other man. And being called off to duty was such a _John_ thing to do.

With one last glance on his own grave – Mycroft really had a nice taste in these things – he decided to leave the graveyard as well. He had spent the whole day here waiting for John. And since he had to wait a while longer for his friend he could as well wait comfortably. At Baker Street. A cab ride would bring him there in twenty minutes, but Sherlock decided to walk. He had stood still too long for today and he wanted to feel London, breath London, see the changes. It had been a while since he had allowed himself to walk openly through a town and he caught himself more times that he would admit checking for tails. Meanwhile he registered new traffic lights – he waited each time ten minutes to check the circle carefully leaning with the back at a nearby wall –, a new Chinese restaurant – the bottom third of the door handle looked promising –, several diversions due to construction work. He noticed the change in shops and of course he saw the new painting on the building at the corner of Baker Street where once Moriarty had left his threat.

Finally he stood at the door to 221B. He wondered briefly if he should ring, but decided against it. If John almost broke down on seeing him, Mrs Hudson certainly would. And Sherlock felt much too tetchy standing so exposed with the back to potential snipers in front of the door. He knew that he was as safe as he could be at the moment, but one year watching his back made him uncomfortably nervous. Sherlock picked the lock, entered the building and almost sighed with relief. Although he immediately knew that Mrs Hudson wasn't at home, he rang at her doorbell. As expected nobody answered. So he finally stepped on those 17 stairs and stood in front of his door. He had to gather all of his courage to open it, a feeling he filed for later examination.

In a way Baker Street 221B looked exactly the same as he had left it, only much tidier. Mycroft had told him that he and John were still paying the rent although the army doctor didn't live here anymore. There was little evidence of John's absence – his laptop, some of his more interesting (medical) books, but the living room had always been cluttered with Sherlock's mess that John's few things would hardly be missed. Only if you knew where to look. The Union Jack pillow still sat on John's armchair. The Detective wondered what the meant. When he went into the kitchen he registered his lab equipment on the kitchen table – washed up, had been packed away and packed out again. He felt a vague stab of regret for his destroyed experiments, but he could repeat them anytime. If he remembered right, there had been nothing crucial.

The walk through the rest of rooms revealed no surprises. Everything was the same as he had left; only John's room was virtually empty. Returning to the living room, Sherlock glanced around one more time. It was remarkably how little had changed, but how different the flat felt. He blamed the unusual orderliness, but knew it was wrong. He had changed during the past year. Living in hiding, sleeping in dark, filthy places – cellars, shacks, quite literally under a bridge. Sometimes he had treated himself with a cheap motel. In contrast the flat felt almost luxurious. There was only one thing missing. John.

His eyes settled on his violin. And suddenly the urge to play was unbearable. Despite the longing in his fingers to caress the strings immediately with his bow, he took his time to hold it, let his muscle memory take over to tune it, before he settled the instrument below his chin and let the music flow through the empty rooms. Beethoven. Symphony No. 9. Seemed fitting. He hadn't played a violin since his 'death' and he felt the pain in his finger tips where the horny skin had thinned. But he didn't stop. Besides John's presence it was the only other thing he had missed during the past months. But living in the underground provided hardly the right circumstances for carrying a violin around. The Sig Sauer his brother had given him had been much more appropriate.

From Beethoven he turned to Bach. He was midway through Sonata No. 1 before he realised what he was playing. Moriarty's song. His fingers and his bow hesitated for a moment, but then returned to the long practiced movements. He wouldn't let Moriarty stopping him playing what he liked. Out of spite he continued with Partita No. 1. He couldn't stop the small satisfied smile on his lips when he finished the last notes. Yes, it was over. The Triumphal March of Verdi's Aida seemed in order. Well, at least until he heard the thud of bags landing on the floor. Mrs Hudson. She came home. Carefully he placed the violin in its case, before rushing down the stairs.

She looked fragile, staring at him with teary eyes. She had lost weight (3 pounds), gained some grey hair and wrinkles (not from laughing), her hip was bothering her (should have taken the heavier bag on the other side). She looked more vulnerable as he had ever seen her. More than during this CIA episode, more than during her husband's trial. And Sherlock was lost, he had no idea what to do. He wanted to hug her, assuring her that everything would be alright, but on the other hand he feared that might be too much. John would know what to do. The detective felt a stab of irritation. John wasn't here. He was saving other lives.

"Sherlock?"

Even her voice sounded fragile.

"Is that really you?"

"Yes, it's really me, Mrs Hudson."

Finally making a decision, he closed the gap between himself and his landlady to pull her gently, carefully in his arms. He heard her silent sobs when she leaned her head on his chest, patting awkwardly in a – what he hoped – reassuring manner her back. He felt the wet spots where her tears soaked through the thin material of his shirt. It was strange and uncomfortable and everything in him wanted to get out of this hug. It had been too long since he had let anyone this close to him – even before his death he had definitely not encouraged such behaviour. But he forced every instinct to go away down, forced himself to stay and to wait. Slowly the sobs grew quieter until the only thing he heard was the woman's breathing.

And of course felt her fists drumming at his chest.

"How could you? … You stupid boy! … Leave us here and let everyone think that you are dead! … And John? … Have you thought about John? …"

Caught by surprise it took him a moment to catch her fists and force her closer to his chest so that she had no room to move. He waited until he felt the fight leaving her, letting her carefully go. She didn't look fragile anymore. Determined.

"I told him. I met John. But he had to go. An emergency at the hospital", Sherlock was eager to explain.

Her eyes searched his face. She was one of the few people who could actually sometimes read him. What she saw seemed to reassure her, because he heard the fondness in her next words.

"Sherlock. You silly boy."

A sigh.

"Help me with those bags. I'm putting the kettle on."

Wondering what just had happened, Sherlock followed her without questioning. He was sat on a chair in her kitchen, while she prepared the tea and put her groceries away.

"You weren't at my grave today."

He had thought about that. Surely she was sentimental enough to come by, but she hadn't. He knew she had cared about him which was proven by the fact that she was mothering him now, but she hadn't visited his grave.

"John asked me not to. He wanted this day alone, find some closure and would accompany me tomorrow … Well; there is no need for tomorrow."

Her voice faltered a bit at the end and Sherlock saw fresh tears in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. The detective recognised the question in her eyes and knew she wouldn't voice it, not in exact words, but in every other way.

"I had to do this. To stop Moriarty. It was the only way."

"You silly, silly boy."

His throat tightened when he heard the sadness in her eyes.

"And is it over now?"

"Yes."

He had made sure of that. Even if it had cost him one year of his life.

She simply nodded, then turned again with an "You need to eat" and started on preparing pasta while telling him about the new cook at Speedy's, Mrs Turner and her married ones, her sister. He wasn't even interested in those people, but he sat there with his tea and waited. He hadn't spent that much time with her while he was alive – John had sat with her during crappy daytime telly and tea and biscuits – but the normalcy had a calming effect. Hearing about those boring people with their normal lives instead of listening to whispered words about gun trades, drug deals or murder plans settled something in him. And the hot meal also helped, although he would never admit that out loud.

By some kind of silent agreement Sherlock didn't tell her about his hide and seek with Moriarty's men. They both knew she wasn't the right audience. She would be scared on his behalf or lecture him about his lifestyle. There would be no "amazing" and "brilliant", only some "Oh, Sherlock". Instead he gave her a very strongly censored version of his last months, concentrating on the few nice moments – staying in a French pub to listen to a rather good band, breathing fresh air after a ride with a sweaty farmer and his truck full of pigs, finally returning to England. She listened to him, sometimes commenting on his tale, making new tea once in a while, until it became dark outside and he could see tiredness creeping in her eyes. He stood up to leave, enduring one final hug from her while kissing her on her hair, when a thought occurred to him.

"I should probably ask: Can I move back in?"

She chuckled a bit, and then released him.

"Of course. It was too quiet without you."

Slowly he walked the way up to his flat. It still felt strange to him, even more so after the warmth of Mrs Hudson's kitchen. He wondered how long John would be occupied at the hospital, what he would do then. Surely he should do something, but the detective had no idea what this might be. He was quite literally lost in his own living room, because he had never planned on this exact moment. What he would do when he had come back. When he had spoken to John. Thinking of his return had been a private reward for those lonely nights on the hunt, but he had never spared a thought what would come after that. It had been too far ahead, when danger was waiting for him literally at every corner.

He had to make his return official and publicly known. Mycroft could deal with the tedious paperwork that was surely involved in declaring people alive, but letting the public know that he was alive was a complete different area. Certainly it would mean another round of this annoying media buzz. Journalists and photographers camping at his doorstep for a small glimpse on him and a short statement. How awful. But this would be the most effective way. Moriarty had been right, people believed the stories in the newspapers. But how to approach the media without having to answer the same questions over and over again or even worse giving a press conference. John's friend. Nicholas Cartwright. He had cleared his name – maybe he should give him an exclusive as 'Thank you'? Considering this Sherlock decided that this was in fact the best way of action. The Times surely would get the message across and since Cartwright had done everything to clear his name, he would probably not turn this interview into something unwarranted.

What else? He needed cases. Normal people had seldom provided him with interesting enough cases - Henry Knight was the one big exception. That meant Scotland Yard. He had to tell them, too. Probably should talk to Lestrade first. He entertained himself for a moment with the possible reactions of Anderson, Donovan and Chief Superintendent at his return, before deciding that he didn't care. He shouldn't have to explain himself; he was the one who had to stage his own death in order to get rid of Moriarty. If they had done their job properly – if they had believed him – there would have been no need for him to vanish.

Suddenly he felt tired. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, he had still lots of time before he reached that level of exhaustion that let him surrender to sleep, but nevertheless he settled himself on the couch, sinking in his favourite thinking position. He had spent endless nights in this position, pondering about the case at hand, exploring new ideas for experiments or just organising his mind palace. Another indulgence he had to leave behind during his year abroad. Slowly he began to wander in the well-known rooms, filing away the events of the year in a proper way. He didn't realise that dawn was lurking behind the windows, when he heard his phone ringing. It was a startling sound in the too quiet flat, so answering seemed the only possible way of reaction. Mycroft had kept his old number for him and there were only so many people who would call a dead man's number by now.

"Sherlock Holmes." For the first time in a year he actually answered a phone with his name. He briefly concentrated on the tight feeling in his chest, before listening to the voice on the other end.

"You're not dead." John. A smile slipped on his lips when he confirmed: "I'm not dead."

Sherlock heard the soft thud of John's head leaning against the railing, the reverberation of steps in the background. John sat in the stairway, he decided. So still in the hospital.

"You should go to sleep." The advice sounded strange to his own ears and obviously to John's too, because he heard a soft chuckle.

"I should probably tell you the same."

"I'm fine."

He was. He was fine, he had never needed much sleep and the past months hadn't changed that. In fact, they had only enhanced his insomnia. It's hard to get to sleep when there is so much data to analyse and always someone to look out for.

"How long have you been awake?"

John's voice was an odd mixture of amusement, exhaustion and annoyance.

"No, don't answer that. Listen, I will leave the hospital soon, get some sleep and then we'll meet and you tell me everything."

"You can sleep here, in Baker Street, in your room."

"My flat is just around the corner, I'm too knackered to make it to Baker Street. Hell, even the On-Call rooms sound much more appealing than they should."

The smile he heard lessened the sting somewhat, but nevertheless Sherlock felt rejected. This was ridiculous, Sherlock lectured himself. John was just sensible. They could talk when the doctor was not in danger of falling asleep inbetween. Still, it hurt.

"Okay. Text me when you come over."

"I will."

When he lifted his mobile phone from his ear, he realised that he was still waiting for John. That he had done practically nothing else for the last 24 hours than waiting for the doctor. Somehow his irritation grew when he realised that he spent the first day of his new life exactly the same way he had spent his time of 'death'. Waiting for someone to show up. Sherlock was annoyed. Annoyed with himself that he wasn't able to do something else, annoyed how much he depended on John. Annoyed that getting back to normal, to before apparently took endless time.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft's office still looked the same. Not that he had expected otherwise, in a way it was one of the very few constants in his life, but today Sherlock couldn't bear it. Being summoned to his brother's house didn't do anything for his mood. Admittedly, his brother had called and asked him to come instead of sending simply a car. But still, Sherlock hated it. In fact, it reinforced the feeling that he was still not in charge of his own life.

"You need to sign those papers." The ever so calm voice of his brother didn't help. Quite contrary, it stirred the lifelong grudges he held against his brother: For being the elder one, for being taller, for being more intelligent (and using his brain for something as boring as politics). And now he was tempted to add the Moriarty debacle to his personal list. Although technically, they had both underestimated the Irish and it had been Sherlock's idea, but it was also Sherlock who had paid the full price.

From the corner of his eyes he saw Mycroft watching him while he put his signature on several papers before he shoved them back to him.

"This will take two days to process. Then you are officially alive again. Try nothing stupid in the next two days. I don't want to handle the bureaucratic mess this would create."

Obviously Mycroft had moved on from their joined efforts to destroy a criminal web and now returned to being the ever overbearing brother. If Sherlock was honest, he would say that it had been nice working with and relying on someone who was intelligent enough to understand Sherlock's thoughts and even plan ahead. But resuming their old feud felt like a step in the right direction, he was almost grateful for his brother's insult.

"Oh, what do you expect me to do? Should I still hide from the world?" Sherlock adopted a coyly tone, just to see Mycroft's reaction. Ah yes, the long suffering brother was back.

"No, you may tell anybody you want to be informed that you're alive. I've already arranged your public return. Don't worry, as long as you don't speak to the media, you'll be a hero."

Sherlock snorted. As if he ever wanted to be a hero. "I thought I'll give Nicholas Cartwright an exclusive."

Mycroft's eyebrows were lifted in surprise, Sherlock was pleased to notice. "Oh, you planned ahead, how unexpected. That can be arranged. I will keep you informed of the details."

"I can make those arrangements on my own." Really, he was an adult. He had managed to survive one year undercover, he could live without the interferences of his brother.

"Very well, I leave it to you then. How is John?"

Sherlock's irritation grew. The gratitude for his brother acting so normal, as before his 'death', had vanished, instead the livelong resentment took over.

"He is sleeping. After spending about 16 hours in hospital. But surely you know that." Sherlock did nothing to hide his frustration.

"Isn't it good that he found something where his abilities are needed and appreciated?" How did his brother manage to make this sound like an accusation?

"I need him and always appreciated him." He hissed through gritted teeth.

"Well, you had a strange way of showing it. Besides, that's not the point. You were dead. John had no reason to wait for you, but more reason to move on."

"What do you want to tell me?" Only a few minutes in Mycroft's presence and he felt like a stupid schoolboy. Again.

"Do you have any idea what you did to him? He was broken; there were times I thought he might do something stupid. But he is not stupid. He looked for help and he accepted it. He found a new flat, a new job. He has moved on. And since your name was cleared, he was ready for closure."

The words stirred a memory: _He wanted this day alone, find some closure._ Martha Hudson's voice resonated through him. He hadn't thought about it when he heard it the first time. But now it was important. Closure. What did that mean?

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock recognised this kind of sigh. It was the explaining-something-blatantly-obvious-sigh. He had used a few variations of it in the past.

"Don't get me wrong. John is … was grieving for you, I'm sure he would have grieved for you for the rest of his life, a part of him always broken beyond repair. But he was ready to leave you buried, literally, and start a new life without you. If you were really dead, it was the best we could hope for. He lost so much when you jumped. But he made an effort to build a new life. I'm not sure if he is willing to give it up and return to you."

Sherlock listened carefully. His brother had always been better at understanding people. Could he be right? Could this be? Would John stay away?

Without nothing more than a nod he left his brother's house, his brother would surely deduce why he was going and where. He needed to see John.

* * *

_Everything was a blur of sand and grey. A sandstorm. They were trapped in a sandstorm. He couldn't see anything farther away than a few steps. He knew there were tents to his right side, sometimes caught a glimpse of an outline, but that was about it. Besides he was expected at the ambulance. He could hear helicopters and trucks delivering wounded soldiers. But the ambulance was so far away, regardless how many steps he managed, he only made so much progress. He couldn't lift his feet, something was wrong. They were slowly sinking in some kind of lake. Shortly he wondered why there was a lake at the camp, before he took the effort to look down to his feet. An icy hand clutched his heart. No lake – blood. He stood in a puddle of blood! His eyes followed the stream of blood to the ambulance door; saw the red fluid slowly dripping under the doors to the ground. Sherlock! Deep down in his bones he knew this was Sherlock's blood. (What was Sherlock doing in Afghanistan?) The sight prompted him to double his efforts. And yes, yes, yes, he made progress, slowly but the doors were coming closer, he could reach them, soon, soon. Finally he was at the door and opening it. When he got inside, he was standing at a rooftop. St. Bart's – his brain happily told him. Sherlock was standing on the balustrade, turning to him. His pale face covered in violent streaks of blood. Sherlock stretched his arm to him as if to touch him. But they were too far apart. He tried to move closer, wanted to touch his friend, hold him back, but as if walking through the blood had drained all movement out of him, there was nothing he could do. He simply stood and looked at the detective. "It was all a magic trick." Sherlock's voice, so raw and tearful. Oh god, all of his guts recoiled at the thought what would happen next. And then Sherlock laughed like he used to do when he had tricked Anderson or Mycroft. As if everything was just great fun and he wasn't bleeding and standing on a rooftop. He simply laughed. And then he turned around and jumped …_

"Sherlock!"

John startled up, his own scream on his lips. He was panting violently and it took a few moments to realise that he was not in the Afghan desert or on a rooftop in London. Still, everything was wrong. It took him a bit longer to understand that he was at his own flat – still somewhat strange to him after all this months, in his own bed.

"You had a nightmare. A nightmare about me." Sherlock's voice was a mixture of irritation and satisfaction.

John turned his head abruptly, staring in the semi darkness to see his friend. (Of course, he wouldn't wait until he was called.) It was unnerving to see the pale man in front of him, just like he had moments ago in his sleep. The grey eyes, the almost alien face surrounded by dark curls, the lanky body in a suit and the famous coat. The only thing missing was the blood. It was a disturbing thought because now his brain supplied him with the memory of a bloody body on the pavement. John closed his eyes, tried to get rid of the pictures only to have them replaced by the memory of the dream. Sherlock laughing and jumping.

Laughing and jumping.

Laughing…

A magic trick...

The terror of the night faded away only to be replaced by something darker. Anger. How could he? How could he be irritated by John's nightmare? Satisfied by it? He had put John in this nightmare. Again. Baskerville came up in the back of his mind, but this was worse. So much worse. All the hurt and the pain came back, joining the anger and it took enormous effort just to stay calm.

"Brilliant deduction, but certainly not your usual standard. What gave me away? The scream?"

Sherlock blinked at the offensive sarcasm, before he answered in his 'obvious' voice.

"You had a traumatic day. It was to be expected that you would have nightmares."

"Oh, really? Tell me: Was it to be expected that I had nightmares about you jumping from a roof – dying – the whole last year?"

God, it was too early for this. Slowly he got out of bed. Two sleepless nights – one for grieving, one for operating – and only a couple of hours to recover. He couldn't have this conversation right now. He was angry and hurt and still too tired. Maybe tea would help. He headed for the kitchen.

"Well, not the nightmares per se, but I knew you would suffer. In fact, I counted on it. I needed an authentic reaction."

"Authentic reaction …" John stopped midway to stare at his friend. "Authentic reaction? Are you mad?" But suddenly, suddenly it all made sense: "You planned ahead …"

Sherlock's reaction was everything John needed to know. The anger was back. Full force.

"You staged your death and you never told me. You let me grieve for you the whole year. You bastard. You utter bastard." John realised that he was shouting but there was nothing he could do about it right now and he didn't even care. "Who knew? Who …" John closed his eyes for a moment. "Of course. Mycroft! Anybody else?"

In any other situation he would have been a little bit pleased about the look of uncertainty on Sherlock's face, but not in his current mood. He had long experience reading Sherlock's expressions. There was somebody else.

"Who?" The younger man stayed silent. John repeated his question with more force this time. "Who? Who else knew?"

Finally, the detective answered: "Molly. She helped to stage and fake the paperwork …"

The rest was lost in the rush of blood in John's ears. Molly. Molly helped. Molly had been allowed to help, but he was only allowed to grieve. For an authentic reaction. It was too much. He couldn't bear it. Instinct took over. Without really knowing what he was doing, he took the three steps to Sherlock and dragged him out of the armchair, out of his living room, out of his flat, before slamming the door in the other man's face.

"John? John?"

As sudden as his outburst had come, the moment he stared at the dark wood of his own door, all energy left him. The adrenaline rush was gone and he felt his knees weaken the second time in 24 hours. Slowly he sank to the ground, managed to turn around to lean on his door. He could still hear Sherlock calling him, but it remained background to the turmoil of emotions he felt inside. He had thought he had been through the worst. Had lain on the ground, broken and somehow managed to stand up again. Starting a new life from scratch. Admittedly there were still so many bad days. But he had managed to function, to work, to live some kind of normal. And now this. This changed everything. It took him a while to define the new element in his emotions. There was still sadness and anger, grief, tiredness, but also something different, something he had never associated with Sherlock. It was betrayal.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

What had just happened?

One moment Sherlock was sitting in an armchair across from John's bed, watching the other man sleeping and wondering if he should wake him from his nightmare. And the next thing he knew, he was thrown out of the flat by a very angry doctor.

He wasn't entirely sure why John was so angry. Was it because of the nightmare? But John had said that he had them over the past year. And he had nightmares before, dreaming of Afghanistan, loosing friends, getting shot. Surely he must be used to them by now. And as Sherlock had told him, it wasn't the slightest bit surprising. It had been a stressful day for the doctor with his return and operating on all those gang-war victims.

In an odd way Sherlock had found it satisfying and reassuring that John had dreamt about him. John still cared about him, so there was still a chance. Still a chance that Mycroft wasn't right and John hadn't moved on. Or at least not enough to not return to Sherlock and to their flat at Baker Street.

But now John was angry, angrier with him than he had expected. Sherlock had anticipated some sort of fury or even violence from John. But everything seemed so perfect at the graveyard that this change of heart had been completely surprising. And the worst part was that Sherlock really didn't know what had caused it.

John had been sarcastic about Sherlock's nightmare remark, but then he wanted to make tea, John's well known ritual to calm himself. And then they had talked about the fact that John hadn't known while Mycroft and Molly had. But surely John must realise that the safest way to assure anyone of Sherlock's death was the doctor's genuine grief.

It was frustrating not to be able to solve the problem of John's anger. He called the other man several times, got funny looks by the neighbours – of course he knew they were watching the scene through their spyholes – but he remained where he was despite the lack of response. Sitting on the stairs outside John's flat. He knew the other man was just on the other side of the door, crouched on the floor, leaning against the wood – Sherlock had heard the soft thud of a head against the door.

They both sat there for 42 minutes before John got up and finally spoke to him. Although Sherlock had preferred they had waited longer and the older man had said something else. Nothing like 'Go away, Sherlock. I can't talk to you right now.' Sherlock tried to reassure himself that John hadn't said he would never talk to him again, he just wouldn't right now. But he had never heard the doctor this defeated and that was the real reason he decided to follow John's wish.

Coming outside was a bit startling. The stairway had been dim lighted and very quiet. The only sounds to be heard were the ruffling of his own clothes when he moved, the quiet steps of a neighbour returning home or some muted sounds from one of the flats. Outside, London was as lively as ever. The evening rush hour was about to set in, and Sherlock suddenly remembered that he hadn't slept for several days. The past two days had been emotionally exhausting, more than he had assumed and somehow sleep sounded almost like something worth to try. Maybe the dizziness and the confusion would finally settle.

Coming home, no coming back to Baker Street – it wasn't home, until John returned – Sherlock decided that the sofa would do. He had no intention to sleep in his bed. The sheets probably hadn't been changed since his 'death' and although he had experienced worse, the idea to sleep in one year old sheets was appalling. John would probably yell at him for being too lazy to change them. Well, that was something to look forward to. Yelling about household chores was so normal, so John, so perfect. Sherlock didn't bother to change into his pyjamas, just tossing his jacket away and loosing his cuffs before reclaiming his favourite couch sleeping position.

When he woke up, it was dark outside. Five hours. Excellent. He had slept for five straight hours. The emotional confusion John had caused was still there, but now he could put it aside, until John explained everything to him. John always explained emotional stuff Sherlock didn't understand. He just hoped it would be soon.

It was just about 9 pm. On a normal day before the Moriarty thing he would just pop outside, striving through London or start a new experiment. But he doubted that the flat contained anything necessary to start one. And striving to London had somehow lost its appeal. One part of him still wanted to map out everything, search for changes, but the larger part was still tired of doing this every time he had come to new town in the past 12 months. At the moment, he could live with his current knowledge of London even if it wasn't up-to-date. He was also aware that he still had to keep a low profile until he was officially alive (regardless of Mycroft's thoughts he wasn't completely useless) and it was really annoying that he couldn't get rid of his habit of looking over his shoulder. Of course, it had been necessary, but somehow his subconscious remained in undercover mode and wouldn't turn back to its normal vigilance.

That didn't leave too much options. No experiments, no case … Sherlock caught himself. No case – he could see Lestrade. Chances were low he would be allowed on a crime scene (after all, he was still dead), but maybe the police man had some old case files. Well, better not set the hopes too high, he reprimanded himself, but maybe the DI was capable to explain John's reaction. He had done a decent job of keeping Sherlock somewhat in line before the doctor had become his flatmate. And he was some kind of friend. His brother had told him of the inspector's divorce. So he had moved, leaving the house for his ex-wife and the children. A little bit of hacking in the personal files of the police – he really should upgrade his laptop – was everything the young man needed to start his journey towards the new flat of the older man.

Lestrade wasn't at home. Interesting. If Lestrade wasn't at home at this time of the night this could mean Sherlock was in luck and he really had an interesting case. He picked the lock and let himself in. Or Lestrade still needed to convince his superiors of his value. Then he was probably doing some paperwork. But Sherlock needed to see the other man to know which option was true.

The flat wasn't large – just a bedroom and a living room with a connection to the kitchen. Barely any decorations, only pictures of Lestrade's kids. Just a place to sleep then. In the kitchen he could see the used dishes from breakfast. Sherlock flipped out the light and settled in one of the armchairs, his back to the window, his eyes on the front door. He waited for another twenty minutes in the dark flat when he finally heard the keys. He hadn't bothered to hide his intrusion and wasn't surprised when the inspector stilled before saying in a tired voice.

"Whatever you want - just get it and then out of here."

"Really Lestrade, your hospitality leaves to be desired."

The effect was immediate. Lestrade flipped on the light and stared at him, open mouthed with eyes wide open and mixture of shock and disbelief on his face. Several attempts to speak later, the DI finally found his voice.

"Sher… Oh my god … Sherlock? Sherlock, is that really you?"

Who else could it be?

"Indeed, Detective Inspector. I'm alive."

The reassurance didn't seem to help much; the other man was still not capable for coherent speech.

"But why … I mean how … What the fuck …?"

With a sigh Sherlock explained: "It was the only way to stop Moriarty's game."

"Moriarty's gam … Hang on – what about John?"

_What about John?_ Everything was about John.

"John knows. He's not on speaking terms with me at the moment, but he knows."

Somehow this had finally some effect on the other man. He came a few steps nearer, leaning with both arms on his couch, opposite of Sherlock.

"He didn't know then?"

Of course, he didn't know. That was rather the point. Couldn't they understand? With another sigh he answered. "No, he wouldn't have been safe."

Obviously now it was Lestrade's turn to sigh. The older man combed his hand through his hair.

"I want to punch you. I really want to punch you. And I need a drink." Despite his announcement the Detective Inspector went straight to the cabinet and obviously decided to treat himself with a very generous amount of the Whiskey he had stocked there for emergencies. Sherlock watched him carefully. He wasn't keen on being punched; but it was almost disappointing how controlled the other man was.

"So tell me, what have you done?" Lestrade asked while refilling his glass.

"Well, when Moriarty made everybody believe I was a fraud," – he paused when he noticed the flinch in Lestrade – "I went undercover to destroy his criminal web and restore Moriarty instead of Richard Brook." He refrained from using his obvious voice – the immediate danger of punching might be over, but he didn't want to push any wrong buttons with Lestrade. Not when he still had no idea what he had done with John.

"Listen Sherlock, about that, Moriarty and the fraud thing, I'm sor…" Sherlock interrupted the apology "I know, Detective Inspector. As I said – once the idea is there, you can not make it go away." He really didn't want any apology. After all, it had been his fault to allow Moriarty this far. "Nice job with the mole by the way. It should have made your life easier."

"How did you … Of course, you know. Did you get me the evidence?" – "It was the least I could do."

Lestrade watched him with an incredulous look on his face. "Well, thank you for that. Anything else on my desk that's your work?"

"Really, Detective Inspector, do you think I want to incriminate myself? I just happened to know something about the man and thought you might find it interesting." Sherlock had adopted a mocking tone. There was really no point in telling tales of the past year. He hadn't escaped prison with John as 'hostage' for a staged crime to blabber about the real ones he had committed.

"Are you officially alive by now?"

How was that important?

"No, apparently it will take two more days." Sherlock answered with a raised eyebrow.

"So, you are still dead and I'm obviously haunted by a ghost. Probably alcohol-induced hallucination. No way any crown prosecutor could make something of my statement. If I ever make a statement to the crown prosecutor for that matter. So what can you tell me about some of the open cases on my desk?"

Sherlock hesitated. He wanted to tell Lestrade, wanted to tell somebody of his last year. But his ingrained secrecy fought a hard battle. He was sure Lestrade wouldn't spill a word, however old habits died hard.

"Oh, for god's sake, Sherlock. I know John shot the damn cabbie in the 'Study in Pink'-case. And I never did anything about it. Because he saved you and took out a serial killer. Obviously you destroyed a criminal mastermind and his organisation. And saved a lot of people. Sometimes the end justifies the means. And Moriarty or some of his men walking out of another court free is nothing I want to witness again."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. How could he have missed that Lestrade knew about John and the cabbie? He had never shown any indication. What else had he missed about the man? The younger man made a mental note to observe the police officer a little bit closer in the next future, before he took of his coat and sat back in the armchair where he had waited for the Detective Inspector to arrive.

Lestrade took off his jacket and hung it over one of the chairs of the dinner table before he took seat on the couch opposite of Sherlock. The genius wondered a moment where to begin, but thought he might as well start at the day of his 'death'.

Despite the inspector's reassurance he chose his words carefully and merely hinted and suggested some things rather than telling them outright. He spoke of the re-established Napoleon smuggling routes between France and England as the means of supply for anything Moriarty needed. The discovery of a possible mole at Scotland Yard – Mycroft took over this part of the investigation – and the connection the Basque ETA, Sherlock's next destination.

Moriarty hadn't been too interested in political terror; bombing was just for his entertainment. But the ETA had good connections to arms dealers; that's why he had put up with them. The same could be said about the Irishman's connection to the Sicilian Mafia, he was merely interested in their connections, not in their business. In both situations Sherlock had been able to take out Moriarty's henchmen. It had been surprisingly easy to stage them as traitors and leave the rest to the underworld.

This was quite well since he had met the assassin who had been responsible for Mrs Hudson. The man had actually been on holiday, but Sherlock followed him to England. After dealing with the man he left the UK once again, heading for the US – a hacker ring in Iowa (calling themselves Kirk's Enterprise – some silly pop culture reference) and a trafficking ring in California. This time he helped the authorities, posing as Interpol agent with the help of on old friend of mummy.

From LA he travelled to Japan (Moriarty's connection with the Yakuza), via Russia to Afghanistan (following the drug trail) to Ireland. Finally finding the evidence to successfully arrest the mole – an old acquaintance of Moriarty from childhood days it appeared. His next flight took him to South America, once again following the drugs. But this time he wasn't as successful in eliminating them as before, but at least Moriarty's men were out of business. Ironically a trace led him to Moriarty's second in command in Switzerland, near the Reichenbach Falls. With Mycroft's help he abducted the man and brought him to England (the British government had some questions) and well there he was.

When Sherlock had finished his tale it was well past midnight and his throat was dry. Lestrade had provided him with a glass of water at some point but otherwise didn't interrupt the younger man.

After a long silence while each man just observed the other, Lestrade simply asked:

"Moriarty's second in command – could his name be by any chance Sebastian Moran?"

Sherlock felt his lips flicker in surprised apprehension; he had really underestimated the other man.

"Sebastian Moran became a professional assassin after his final tour with the British army, Mycroft has a nice little list of his victims. First he worked as freelancer, but then he became Moriarty's man. The last name Moriarty had given him was John."

"Thought so."

After that both men stayed silent, got lost in thoughts. The silence didn't feel hostile as it had sometimes with Lestrade in the past. It was some kind of companionship. And Sherlock realised something. He would have jumped for John alone; he would have jumped if only Mrs Hudson had been in danger. But until now he had never been entirely sure whether he would have jumped if Moriarty had only threatened Lestrade. Now he knew.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

John didn't know how long he sat on the floor leaning at his front door. Slowly the anger and the sadness had faded, leaving only betrayal behind. He had no idea how to deal with it, but he was pretty sure that he couldn't deal with Sherlock at the moment. The other man had stopped calling him through the closed door, but John knew that he was still outside, waiting. It took him a surprising amount of effort to come to his feet and beg Sherlock to go. Through the spy hole he saw the momentary hesitation in the tall man, before he finally left. A tiny part of him screamed to call him back, but the other part – the betrayed part – was so much larger and in control.

John leant against the door, feeling the tiredness of over 48 wake hours and far too little sleep. All he wanted right now was to crawl back to bed and sleep. He really should sleep but the mix of emotion, the memories of his nightmare and the very real version of it, were keeping his head awake even if his body was exhausted. The doctor finally resumed his way to the kitchen, preparing his tea before settling on the bed. He refused the impulse to remove Sherlock's armchair. _Sherlock's armchair?_ The man had been in the flat only for a few minutes, how could the chair become Sherlock's? How could he sneak into John's life again after all what happened?

He needed to get out; he couldn't stand his own flat anymore. The silence, the Sherlockness of the armchair. He got dressed and left with no idea where he wanted to be, letting his feet taking the lead. When he realised that he once again was near St. Bart's he resolutely changed his direction. This time he ended up at Sarah's. This was astonishing in itself since he hadn't been here after their break-up. But somehow Sarah seemed right – and Sherlock wouldn't search for him here.

Sarah looked surprised when she opened the door, but he was not entirely sure if she was surprised by him or by his appearances. Judging from the care with which he was handled, it was probably the latter. John let himself being guided into the living room, on the couch where he once had slept on. As far as he could tell nothing had changed. Shortly he heard her bustling in the kitchen, the noise of the kettle. She soon returned with two steaming mugs. He took one of the cups, while she sat on the table in front of him. He recognized her gaze as the Dr. Sawyer-gaze while she evaluated him. The army doctor was not sure what she saw and even more insecure how to explain his visit. In the end she simply asked:

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Sherlock is alive."

It came as a shock, saying those words out loud. _Sherlock is alive._ The man he had grieved for so deeply was alive. Alive. Not dead.

Sarah's eyes changed from doctor to worry. He couldn't blame her.

"Yes, I know. It sounds strange and I would probably think my patient has hallucinations. But I swear he's alive."

"And why do you look worse than the first time I saw you after his death?" He could hear her frown.

"He lied to me."

"You always said that he lied to you." She pointed out.

He let out a huff. "Not about the fraud thing. About the being dead thing. I was his best friend. I thought I was his best friend." He could hear the desperation in his last words.

"Do you know why he lied to you?"

"Probably something to do with Moriarty. We haven't talked very much."

"And why are you now here and not talking to him?"

John wondered if this was the reason she was such a good doctor. Of course she would address the most hurtful point. There was a bunch of reasons why he was not talking to Sherlock. The detective had made somebody else the keeper of his secret, while he had received nothing but the pain and the misery. He had saved Sherlock's life several times. He deserved more than that. He deserved the truth.

"He lied to me. He went to somebody else to help him faking his death. And he nearly killed me."

The last words were almost sobbed. He could feel the first tears running down his cheeks, unable to stop them. They became a silent stream only accompanied by his own ragged breath. He couldn't see Sarah's face clearly through watery eyes, only when she came closer to hand him tissues, he recognised sadness and pity.

It took an embarrassing long time to calm down again. When he blew his nose a final time, Sarah got up and returned with a glass of brown liquid. Obviously sensing his confusion, she simply pushed the glass in his hands:

"Drink this and then you will sleep. Doctor's orders."

He tried to protest, but was cut off immediately.

"You are exhausted. Physically and emotionally. You can't think straight ahead. You need sleep. You can have the sofa. I would give you my bed, but I know you would refuse. So please, sleep on the sofa."

He caught a sad smile ghosting around her lips. It had been a long time since they were involved. Even longer since he had slept the last time on the sofa. Before Moriarty and his little games. When everything seemed easy. A new flat, a close friendship, a developing relationship. What was left of it now? He hadn't set a foot in Baker Street for almost a year, his best friend had played a cruel trick on him and he couldn't even remember when he had the last date with a woman, not to speak of an actual relationship. What had become of his life? He was crying on the sofa of an ex-girlfriend over the madman who was one of the main reasons she had broken up with him. Could he be more pathetic?

Apparently yes, because he found himself accepting the blanket and the pillow Sarah offered him. The crying and the little self-analysis had deprived him of any fight. He would sleep and tomorrow he would try to build up a new life. That had been the plan all along, a little voice in his head reminded him, but he was too tired to follow this thought anywhere.

With a sigh he tried to get comfortable without taking off too many clothes – despite Sarah's being a doctor and the 'having seen it all before'-part he still had some modesty. The pillow was soft, as was the blanket, and with a last glance around, a silent 'thank you' to Sarah, he closed his eyes. Briefly he hoped for no further nightmares, before he remembered nothing at all.

The next morning had all the potential of being one of the most awkward 'mornings after', but somehow Sarah and he managed to settle in some kind of amicable companionship. He had stored all his emotions in a closed folder for further and much later inspection. This time she had brought him coffee, for which he was very thankful. Neither of them mentioned the previous evening, but he registered some soothing touches from her, which had the intended effect. They took off to the surgery, where John would also refresh himself – his spare clothes at his office and the surgery's shower should do the trick. It was strange arriving with Sarah, they hadn't been together long enough to arrive as couple when they were involved and it seemed such a couplish thing to do.

The doctor was distracted from his thoughts when he recognised the familiar figure of DI Lestrade at the front door. He briefly wondered if it was his job to inform the inspector, but this question was answered when Lestrade greeted him with "I just spoke with a dead man."

It wasn't until they were both settled in John's office with a freshly brewed coffee before the grey haired man elaborated his statement.

"Broke into my flat last night. Nearly got a heart attack when I saw him. I never suspected …"

"Neither did I."

For a short moment, both men remained silent. John's carefully closed 'Sherlock'-folder came back and opened up, all the emotions of the past day slowly spilling back in his veins. The sadness, the anger …

"He told me how he took Moriarty's web down …"

… the betrayal. Suddenly everything was back. The pain, the hurt, the treason. He couldn't hear Greg's voice anymore. He had thought yesterday had been the worst. But Sherlock had told Greg about the past year. Greg of all people – Greg who had doubted him, Greg who had him arrested. And what about him? He had never doubted, he would have followed him into prison, into death. He got nothing? No explanation, nothing. He didn't know how he remained calm for the rest of the conversation, he certainly didn't talk much. It took all his effort not to yell at Lestrade for all this injustice. He had suffered most, still suffered, and he wasn't allowed to know anything.

When the first patients called in, Lestrade left, oblivious to John's inner struggles. The whole morning John simply went through the motions, trying to focus on the people in front of him and not his anger. It worked a bit. When it was finally time for his lunch break he locked his door. He couldn't deal with anyone right now, not when everything inside him fought over Sherlock. He needed time to think, to decide what he would do next.

A small part of his brain knew that he had not exactly given Sherlock a chance to explain anything to him. But John was in no mood for logic. He was too consumed by his emotions, summed up during the last 12 months when he had simply tried to function. He had made progress in his grief; he had wanted closure, starting a new life.

Starting a new life – he remembered that thought from last night before he went to sleep. And he remembered it from two weeks ago. He had planned to give himself one more day remembering Sherlock and then move on. He had wanted to speak to Mrs Hudson, telling her that he wanted to stop his payments for Baker Street since he didn't plan to return, although he would have waited until she had found another tenant. He had polished his CV, planning on looking for another job in another town. London had been always Sherlock's battlefield. Maybe Edinburgh would make a nice change. Nobody would know him there; nobody would recognise him as Sherlock's companion. It had been a solid plan. Something to look forward to.

And now everything had changed. Sherlock was back, was alive. Was there still a need to move on? His memory supplied him with pictures of their cases, of shared laughs, running through dark alleys. Sherlock about to take the suicide pill, the pool, Sherlock being throttled by a giant, Sherlock in panic at a fireside, Sherlock on a rooftop. The black tombstone with a name in golden letters. He couldn't do this again. He wouldn't survive a second time. And obviously what they had shared was not enough for Sherlock to confide in him.

He had thought they had something special. He had cared deeply for the other man, had killed for him. But that hadn't been enough. John had never doubted Sherlock before, had always believed in him, in their friendship, but now he wasn't sure anymore. Sherlock had sent him away from the lab, lied to him on the rooftop, asked somebody else for help and obviously never bothered to tell him that he was alive.

It was time to make a decision. Move on or go back.

Move on.

Go back.

It had been simple two weeks ago, even two days ago. Because there was no decision to make, no other option. But now – everything was at stake once again. His mind was buzzing with 'What if's for either scenario. Following Sherlock, never knowing when the man decided he should fake his death again. Never knowing if anything was real or meant something. Or ending everything. He had survived without Sherlock, the pain was by now a well-known companion, something engraved in his soul. What was easier to handle – the insecurity or the pain?

Oh god, he needed fresh air. A short look to the clock confirmed that he still had time. He unlocked his door and took the back entrance out. He decided to grab a sandwich from the local bakery and started to walk. When he reached the main street some instinct told him to turn. Sherlock.

The other man had noticed him too, coming nearer with long strides. John waited until the other man stood right in front of him. He looked up in this almost alien-like face with the all-consuming eyes. When Sherlock started to speak, he held up a hand to stop him and continued to study the so familiar face as if he saw it for the first time. After a while which felt like forever something settled in John's chest. He hadn't been able to make a decision before, but he was now.

"I won't move back to Baker Street. I won't solve cases with you. I stop blogging about you. I don't want you to break into my flat. And I'm done talking to you. Goodbye Sherlock."

With a last glance in those hypnotising eyes he turned, resuming his way to the bakery although lunch was the last thing on his mind. He felt more like vomiting and tears burnt in his eyes. This had been the hardest decision in his whole life. But he couldn't do this again. He couldn't let his life be so consumed by Sherlock and nothing else. To stay alive, unhurt, _sane_ , he needed to move on. Cut the contact altogether, because otherwise he wouldn't last. He was certain of that since the shock and the pain he had seen in grey eyes before he turned away were almost enough to lure him back.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

There are not many ways to shut up Sherlock's ever active mind. But right now John had found a quite effective one. All the detective could do was stand still and stare at the disappearing silhouette while a whole bunch of emotions settled in his chest. It took him a while to recognise the most prominent one - panic. He hadn't felt panic in a long time, certainly not since the drug-induced evening at Dartmoor. And as far as he remembered never in a situation when a man was simply walking away from him. But this was John. John who had always stayed.

He had alienated enough people in his life to know the words, versions of John's – some kinder, some with the addition of swear words. It seldom meant anything to him. It weren't the words which stopped him on the spot. It was John's tone, the finality in his voice. Sherlock knew this voice, it was John's Captain-voice, his version of 'Do what I say'. The detective had learnt pretty soon that you better cave when the doctor was using this voice. But he had never expected he would hear it in this context.

He had also never expected John's reaction. The acceptance on the graveyard had been a pleasant surprise, he had thought that things went rather smoothly. The anger in the flat was something he had imagined although not at that time, but never this. He had never thought John would turn his back on him. Returning to John was the one fantasy that had made the loneliness and everything else bearable. It wouldn't have done any good if he had imagined John leaving him.

John had always stayed, he couldn't leave him now, could he? Sherlock had done this for him, to protect him, that should mean something. But you never explained it to him, the voice inside his head that sounded suspiciously like Mycroft whispered to him. The thought brought him back to life. It was true. He had never been able to explain everything to John. Before his return it would have jeopardized John's life and afterwards they were always interrupted. Surely when he explained John would come back. He must.

Coming to this conclusion Sherlock contemplated simply waiting on spot for the doctor. It would be no problem at all since he stood here motionless for the past 2 minutes and 37 seconds. But slowly his brain started working again – oh god, was this how the brains of all those dull people worked? – and he realised that this would probably be classified as 'bit no good'. Right now John had only minutes left of his lunch break and Sherlock needed more time than that. Especially since John would insist on going back to work. He was already in the defence, there was no need to add further ammunition. He would leave for today. Although he didn't remember turning around and walking away to be this difficult.

* * *

Sherlock had really wanted to wait, wanted to stay away from John, giving the man time. Time to remember their cases together. Time to heal. Time was supposed to do that, he was told. But despite Mrs. Hudson's advice, Sherlock was standing outside John's new home – _no, new flat_ ; he corrected himself immediately – waiting for the doctor to show up.

After John's declaration, the detective had met Mrs Hudson in the hallway of 221 Baker Street. She had looked at him and then invited him back again in her kitchen. If invited was the right word for being manhandled. He hadn't resisted too much, being still in somewhat shock. Martha Hudson had offered him tea and biscuits, again showering him with trivia about people he didn't care for. He didn't mind this time, it was something that required no input from him. Instead he had let his thoughts wander, paying only marginally attention to his landlady's stories. There had been something in the back of his mind, calling for attention, something to do with her. What ... Oh! Maybe she could explain ...

"Why were you angry?"

The woman had nearly jumped at his sudden question as if she had forgotten that he was here. Which had been odd regarding the fact she had advised him to sit down in her kitchen in the first place. Her reaction had been unusual, as her reaction had been after his return. In a way he had expected anger as reaction, not necessarily by her, but by all of them – John and Lestrade. Mostly because it was one of the very normal human reactions to something unexpected. But there was more, something he couldn't quite grasp. And he had had the feeling that understanding this was one way of understanding John. And then finding a way to convince him back. He had needed more data. So he had asked her again.

She had looked at him with something like pity in his eyes, before she had sat next to him, taking one his hands between hers.

"I'm not sure if you will understand this, my dear. When you died I lost something like a son. And this isn't how the universe should work. I shouldn't stand on your grave with John."

She had been right, he hadn't understood. He wasn't sure if he did now.

"But I'm not dead. Shouldn't you be relieved? Why were you angry?"

"I am relieved, you silly boy." She had ruffled through his hair. "But you had hurt me, let everybody grieve for you, while you were fooling around." He hadn't been able stop the indignant snort at her description of the last 12 months. "You hurt me, us, deliberately and that's why I was angry. It is probably worse for John. Give him time. Time will heal all wounds."

Well, time certainly couldn't heal fatal wounds he had thought. And the thought returned now, while he was watching a tired doctor stepping out of the building. So, nightmares again. Was this good or bad? He slowly followed the doctor, uncertain whether he should speak to him. He wanted them to talk but now was as bad as yesterday, since John was once again on his way to the surgery. But maybe they could set a time, a meeting, to talk. Surely John wouldn't deny him this?

Instead of crossing the ex-soldier's path Sherlock took out his mobile and dialled the other man's number. He watched when John registered the sound, fished in his pocket for the gadget and finally stared at the little screen. He saw the moment of hesitation in John's figure, saw when John made a decision. Disbelieving he looked across the street when John pocketed his mobile again and resumed his way. The call was now transferred to John's mailbox, but Sherlock didn't leave a message. He already got his answer. Maybe he should put more faith in time.

* * *

It was now three days. Three days since John told him to stay away from him. Two days since Sherlock tried to contact him the last time. One day since he was publicly alive again and the media started hunting him and camping at his door step. He had to use the backdoor and his intimate knowledge of London to get to John. Admittedly there weren't so many reporters at his front door by this time of the day, but he didn't want to risk it. They hadn't chased John so far and he had the strong feeling that John ending in a media frenzy wasn't helping his case.

He let himself in and entered John's one-room-flat. He closed the door with a silent clap, before listening carefully for any signs that John had noticed his intrusion. But the other man was asleep. Sherlock watched the figure under the blankets. He couldn't see John's features since he faced the wall, but judging from the frantic movements of his body the doctor was facing another nightmare. Well aware of what happened the other day, when John woke up from a nightmare Sherlock silently stepped closer. He leaned over the sleeping body, not quite sure what to do next. He stretched his arm out, only to stop mid-movement, his hand hovering over John's shoulder.

It was as if time was frozen until one particularly angry movement of an arm and John's unconscious plea "No, Sherlock, no." Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. John pleading was something he had never heard before and he was pretty sure, never wanted to hear again. Carefully he put his still hovering hand on the man's back, trying to calm the frantic movements. Then he leaned in closer and whispered "John, I'm not dead." His attempts seemed to have the desired effect. John calmed, suddenly looked more peaceful. Sherlock let his breath go, astonished to find that he had hold it in the first place, before retracting himself.

He went to the kitchen, placing the letter he had brought at the tea kettle. Sherlock had given this much thought. Calls could be ignored, texts and emails deleted. But a letter was something substantial, something old-fashioned. He knew the doctor was old-fashioned in some things. Getting a letter had been one of his joys. Sherlock simply hoped that this would be true for his attempt, too. And he wished even more that it would explain everything, fix everything between them. He returned to the main room, watching the other man in his sleep, satisfied that the breathing pattern had slowed down and John seemed to get some rest. He allowed himself sixty more precious seconds before he left the flat.

When John woke up he felt absolutely whacked. Well, at least this time he was woken by the alarm and not his own screams from his nightmares. Of course, he still had nightmares, but not waking up from them should count as progress, shouldn't it? Barefooted he entered the kitchen to prepare some tea, when he saw it. A white envelope with his name on it. He knew the writing although he hadn't seen it over a year. But nevertheless he recognised it immediately.

He stared at the envelope, unsure what to make of it. Sherlock had broken in his flat – again. Some hazed memory of a familiar baritone whispering "I'm not dead" popped up and deflated John's anger about Sherlock's disregard of the rules he had set for him. To be fair he wasn't even that angry, more surprised that Sherlock indeed waited three days. And he had left a letter, another note?

_"This is my note. That's what people do."_

For a moment he was back on that spot on the parking space staring at the rooftop. The sudden stab of hurt was an old acquaintance by now and reminded him of his decision. Reading this letter would be a step back to Sherlock, back to the life he'd wanted to leave behind. Back to madness and adrenaline and crazy criminal masterminds.

Carefully he took the letter, weighing it, before taking it between his hands and started tearing it. One time, two times, three times until there were only small shreds of paper left in his hands. He threw them into the bin before rushing in the bathroom, this time giving in to the urge to vomit, until the cramps in his stomach couldn't produce anything more. Shaking he sat on the floor on the cold tiles and hoped Sherlock would stop soon. This wasn't good - not for him and not for Sherlock.

Sometime he managed to go under the shower, brush his teeth almost violently before he got himself clothes and left for the surgery. He half expected to see Sherlock somewhere along the way and was ridiculously relieved and disappointed at the same time when that wasn't the case. He steadied himself entering the doors of the surgery, greeting his colleagues and pretending that the man who was soothed in his nightmares by a whispering baritone didn't exist.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock waited. He stood at the window of his flat and simply waited. It felt as if he had done nothing else since the anniversary of his 'death'. Before his reappearance he had the vague notion that it wouldn't take much and his life would return more or less to normal. Reality was far from that. Instead of gaining control over his own life he seemed incapable of doing anything else than waiting for John.

John, who should be awake by now, tapping barefooted in the kitchen to start the kettle before entering the bathroom. He should have found the letter, he should read it by now. Was it enough? Would John come back? Or at least talk to him again? Sherlock winced at himself, how pathetic. He was only glad that there were no witnesses to him being 'normal'. But he couldn't help it. He had spent the last day composing this letter, some earlier drafts which hadn't ended in the fireplace were silent reminders to his numerous attempts (and failings) at explaining something that had nothing to do with logic or simple brain work.

It wasn't as if he had been able to do anything else. The press had quite literally trapped him in his own flat and he hadn't felt any desire to cross this bunch of hyenas. He had even seen some at the backdoor, but they hadn't stayed long. Mrs Hudson resolute demeanour had chased them away. Today only the most persistent had stayed, all the others were gone one by one. Probably called back by someone higher, someone with _minor_ influence on the media.

Right on cue a black car entered Baker Street. The detective watched motionless as his brother descended, but raised an eyebrow when he recognised Mycroft's company. He hadn't talked to Lestrade since his confessions in the DI's flat and hadn't expected a change so soon. He heard them ringing, after no reaction on their first try his brother wisely decided it was the best to go straight for Mrs Hudson. Mumbled voices as his landlady let them in and then two heavy footfalls on the stairs.

"Sherlock", the accentuated voice of his brother called his name in a way of greeting when the two men entered the flat. He waited another ten seconds before he reacted, turning around. He could see the slight irritation in his brother's features. At least that was still something under his control – irritating his brother.

"Mycroft, Lestrade." It was a simple acknowledgement - not quite a greeting - and of course included 'What the hell are you doing here?' with enough irritation slipped in so they understood that he had no patience for mind games right now. John was wearing his already not well developed patience thin.

"Well, Sherlock, I'm, um, here as official represent of New Scotland Yard today." Lestrade answered his unvoiced questions with an odd formality only to receive a raised eyebrow in response. Lestrade normally didn't stutter.

He saw the elder man sigh, then visibly straighten himself before holding out an envelope to the Consulting Detective.

"Scotland Yard wants to offer their apologies for, um, recent events and has instituted you now as official consultant of the police. You will receive a fee for each case you're involved."

"I don't want a fee."

"It's not about the fee." Lestrade sounded exasperated. "It's making you an official body in investigations. So nobody can claim they didn't know you were solving murders and things. The crown prosecutor thought it would enhance further courtroom convictions if you were an official consultant rather than a bloody amateur. Although I think he has to be pretty desperate to call you again as witness." The last line was delivered with a small smirk.

"The contract also allows you to provide your insight on cases for which you weren't officially summoned." Mycroft added. "And it grants you access to the legal databases if needed on behalf of a private client. But you are still free to choose the cases you want."

The contract didn't include anything that he hadn't done before – solving crimes, harassing detectives about unsolved cases or hacking in the police database – but this way it was much more convenient. It was an all-access-card to Scotland Yard, Sherlock thought impressed. Somebody very high must have been really scared. Probably of the press, but even more so of Mycroft or whoever he had chosen to fulfil his wishes.

"We even got you a badge, so you don't have to nick mine again." Lestrade fished in his pockets, pulling out indeed an official badge. When Sherlock took it from him, he inspected the gleaming metal before looking back at the Detective Inspector.

"I didn't nick them because I wanted a badge." This time the subtext wasn't hostile. It said 'Thank you' and 'I accept your apology'.

For a short moment the three men stood in silence. Sherlock even considered offering tea, but then thought better of it. He wasn't in the mood to suffer his brother's presence much longer. And besides, tea making was John's job. John who would normally have finished his shower by now and return to the kitchen. Had the letter made a change? His thoughts back to the problem of losing his best friend he barely registered the two other men leaving. And after a while he resumed his position at the window, waiting for the doctor to appear.

* * *

John's neck and his bad shoulder were hurting. It didn't do wonders to him sleeping on couches in strange flats, not to mention the nightmares. The first night after the 'letter incident' he had come home, only to leave the flat half an hour later with an overnight-bag and heading to his sister. She hadn't questioned his arrival or his motives, but she had been probably to inebriated by that point. He had camped in her living room, surrounded by an impressive collection of empty bottles.

Since the hangover version of Harry was the most unpleasant version of his sister, he had left after an awkward breakfast with accusations, but again without questions. Somehow during the day he had convinced himself that it hadn't been this awful and he had stayed another night. Not a mistake he was about to make again. From that on he had slept on Mike's or Nick's sofa.

It was probably a stupid method to avoid Sherlock. The man was a genius and a detective. Not to forget his elder brother with the access to CCTV. And even in the unlikely event that Sherlock couldn't deduce where he was sleeping, he could still come to the surgery. In fact, John was astonished that the madman hadn't tried to contact him. Surely he had expected some kind of reaction from John.

Maybe that had been explained in the letter. Another wave of regret for tearing the letter before reading it swapped over him, but he tried to dismiss the feeling and reenforced his decision to stay away from Sherlock as he had done the previous times. Everything was still too fresh and speaking to the man would certainly not help his resolve.

And it wasn't as if not everything and everyone seemed so keen on reminding him of the detective. There was no escaping the bold headlines of the tabloids or the 'reports' on the telly. Everybody on the street seemed to talk of nothing else. Sherlock had become topic number one in Britain. The doctor was only happy that most of the media had chosen to ignore him, although he suspected Mycroft's meddling in this.

But of course his friends – unlike Harry – asked. Sometimes actually voicing a question, sometimes only evaluating him. He preferred the latter. Living with Sherlock had taught him how to keep his secrets when you were under the inspection of those laser eyes. He couldn't explain his decision to anybody else, not when he still had to think of the ache to convince himself of the rightness. So answering the real questions was not an option. Thank god, those times when he was asked they also accepted his mumbled 'I don't want to talk about it' and offered a sympathetic smile and a second pillow.

John slowly stood up and started stretching himself. He had started his stretching exercises during his university days – an advice by one of his professors to avoid muscle cramps from standing too long at operation tables. Since Afghanistan it was mostly to avoid the pain in his shoulder when the weather changed or they had been on a particularly bad chase. When he felt his muscles loosen a bit, John headed to the kitchen.

He was greeted by a pot of coffee and Nick scanning the headlines on his laptop.

"Anything happened?", he inquired sipping his coffee.

"New elections in Belgium, probable terrorist attack in Indonesia and some minor scandal involving a minister and prostitutes in Brazil. And of course, I got a call from Sherlock Holmes offering me an exclusive." With his last words the journalist turned his head and watched John's reaction. Which involved choking on his coffee and several attempts to get his breath back.

"He hates the press." John felt inclined to point out.

"He said it was a ‚'thank you' for clearing his name." Nick still had his eyes on him.

"What did you say?"

"That I wont make decisions about interviews at 4 am in the morning."

John couldn't suppress a smile at the indignant tone in his friends voice. His imagination easily provided him with details of this conversation, Sherlock without any consideration for other people's sleep since it was 'boring' and Nick's attitude of 'sleeping whenever I can'. And there it was again – the ache in his stomach that told him that he missed the madman far too much. With determination he concentrated on the matter at hand.

"What do you want to say?"

"It's an exclusive. And as you say, he hates the press. It would make a nice finish to my researches."

"You want to do it." It wasn't a question.

"I'm probably only thankful that he didn't break into my flat like his brother did. That was creepy, I tell you." Nick offered an apologetic smile.

Sherlock breaking once again into a flat where he slept was something he decidedly didn't want to think about. Instead he tried another sip of his coffee.

"Do it. Don't worry about me. It isn't as if I had to sit next to you two and listen."

Nick eyed him carefully before turning his attention back to the laptop and mumbling something. It sounded like 'maybe you should', but John wasn't sure and the other man didn't say anything further. With a shrug John decided the conversation was over and went into the bathroom. He needed to hurry, it was a longer way to the surgery from Nick's flat.

* * *

He had waited a week, resisting the urge to go after John or even asking his brother about the doctor's whereabouts, but now he couldn't stand it anymore. Once again Sherlock let himself into John's flat. Although it was obvious that the other man wasn't at home, in fact hadn't been here for several days. He could see the undisturbed dust patterns. Despite this he couldn't resist and entered the flat completely, closing the door behind him. The rooms smelled of John, a fragrance that was almost gone from Baker Street. He briefly wondered if he could preserve it in some way and take it back with him. Maybe this should be his next experiment. His eyes glanced around the room, cataloguing all the small things.

John hadn't left in a hurry, everything was neatly in order, military style. The bed was made, there were no dishes on the worktops. He must have planned this. Sherlock opened the cupboard with John's clothes, but was unable to tell what and how many of them were missing. He had lost one year of cataloguing the doctor's belongings and he was sure he hadn't even seen everything before. Certainly John had some kind of storage room, maybe a cellar or something extern, because this couldn't be all.

Sherlock closed the cupboard's doors and went into the kitchen. He had noticed a tear-off calendar during his last nighttime-visit. It had shown the exact date. John was a man of habit, the calendar would certainly answer the question how long the doctor had been absent. It was still on the same date as Sherlock had seen it the last time. An uneasy feeling was settling in his stomach.

He glanced once again through the kitchen, registering the bin. The uneasy feeling was turning in some sense of foreboding. Slowly he moved forward, almost anxious to open it. When he did, he wished he hadn't. He stepped back, unable to look at the solid evidence of white paper shreds in an otherwise empty bin. So that was it, that was the reason why caring wasn't an advantage, his brain reminded him while the emotional turmoil became almost too much to bear. He took several deep breaths and registered with unpleasant surprise that a tear was rolling down his cheek.

John hadn't even opened his letter. And suddenly he understood all those silly metaphors of heartbreak and burning a heart out.

* * *

Something was off when John arrived at the surgery. Sarah greeted him at the front door with a mixture of emotions playing on her face. He thought he identified some kind of outrage and pity, not sure what to make of it. She gestured him in, before she turned to a table where a box was placed. She gave him the box and then answered his silent question.

"I got a text this morning from Sherlock. It said that he left your remaining belongings at the surgery. It also said that you can return to your flat, he would respect your wishes from now on."

Somehow he wasn't relieved that Sherlock accepted his decision.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The victim lay in a dumpster at the backside of a hotel. Her blonde hair was almost undone and smeared with blood. In her fingers she clutched a blue garter. She wore a translucent negligee that certainly had meant to be seductive, but with the rubbish around her and the blood on her chest, it had lost its appeal.

Sherlock stared in the dumpster, cataloguing everything. The down-pipe, the bloodstains, her angle. It was pretty obvious who had done it, but not why Lestrade had called him. This should be simple even by Scotland Yard's standards, not even a six, clearly not worth his time.

"Arrest the girlfriend of the man who caught the garter at the wedding", Sherlock advised the DI before he tried to leave the scene.

"Sherlock, what are you talking about? What wedding?"

"What do you mean 'what wedding'? It's obvious, isn't it?"

Oh god, how had Scotland Yard managed one year without him? He silently regarded each officer at the scene, measuring them up and came up with almost nothing. Lestrade was irritated, clearly still trying to get his life back on track, but today he struggled with personal issues and not his job. It had been his day off, judging from his clothes, probably his turn with the kids. He was distracted, that would explain the downgrade in his observation skills.

Donovan had still problems with her wound. She wore sensible shoes, not those ridiculous high-heels. And she had let him pass through the police cordon without her usual attempts at insulting him. Clearly feeling guilty – as if she had been one of the reasons he had jumped. Why did people always assume everything thad happened had to do with them? The good thing was her patience was wearing thin, maybe at the next crime scene her behaviour would be 'normal' again. Well, normal for him.

Anderson was even worse. While Donovan had opted for silence, the forensic officer had tried to be helpful, which could only end in destroyed evidence if Sherlock was any judge. God, he hoped they would stop this or he might strangle one of them very soon. He hated this, hated how he was treated. Despised it because it reminded him of everything that was different now. As if he needed a reminder. He was always aware of John's absence; it seemed his new default setting.

And even worse, he couldn't think of anything that would make those feeling go away. He had considered cocaine, but cocaine never made him forget, it intensified everything. And he knew from experience how hard the consequences were. The last time Lestrade had actually found something illegal during one of his drug busts – years before John –, he had threatened to never consult him again. Since the crime scenes were the only thing he had left, it ruled out the drug.

He had tried alcohol one night. But he didn't like losing control, being not able to think. And somehow the whiskey made him remember John's desperation about his sister's alcoholism. It had instantly sobered him up. And although he could see some poetic justice in him starting to drink because of John, the main reason for alcohol had been the wish to forget and not remembering even more about the doctor.

He had settled on cigarettes instead. They helped him think, helped him focus. Mrs Hudson wasn't fond of it, dreading what the smoke did to her walls and the smell. But she had remained silent, clearly preferring his smoking to his usual methods of self-destruction. He hadn't told her not to worry, that he didn't intend to waste his brain away. Or that he had chosen only to live for the crime scenes, although he feared that every criminal after Moriarty would be disappointment. Whatever he had done Jim Moriarty had made his life less boring. So he allowed Mrs Hudson to take care, popping up in the flat with freshly brewed tea and biscuits. She didn't nag him as much as John about the food, so he seldom ate them, but it was some sort of comfort.

"Sherlock, what wedding?" Lestrade's question woke him from his thoughts. He had done it again, he had lost focus. Probably time for a new nicotine high. With some effort he returned to the crime scene, snarling at the DI.

"Lestrade, how often did I tell you that you should observe. There are several place cards and wedding invitations with yesterday's date in the dumpster. The hotel isn't very posh, but her hair was professionally styled, so she played an important role. Not the bride – the bride wouldn't still have the garter and probably been missed by now. So one of the bridesmaids. If I remember correctly it's tradition that the bachelors attempt to catch the bride's garter. Clearly this time the lucky bachelor had opted for another tradition – celebrating with the bridesmaid. His girlfriend – a brunette by the way – hadn't been too pleased. Her jealous attempt to talk to the other girl ended in violence. Now may I go, I have much more interesting things to do."

Which was clearly a lie, but Lestrade couldn't know this. Nothing held his interest for long these days. And if it did there was always a point when he would turn to John to tell him about, only to be reminded again of the other man's decision. So, most of the time he ended up thinking about the army doctor. Thinking about deleting him. He had made a few half-hearted attempts, but never got very far. It felt as if deleting their time together made it something ordinary. Something that could happen any day. Sherlock knew for fact that it couldn't.

* * *

John was staring at the white door in front of him. The door to Ella's office. He needed to talk to someone who would only listen. Lately everybody in his life seemed inclined to offer his opinion about him and Sherlock. Without being asked.

Lestrade at the pub night – he had talked about Sherlock's first case, how the consulting detective had merely glanced at a dumpster and then gave Lestrade murderer and motive. The jealous girlfriend had confessed pretty soon after being asked about her boyfriend and the garter. He had ended his story with a not so subtle remark that John should have been there.

Nick hadn't stopped talking about the interview and that it was obvious how deep Sherlock had valued their friendship. Eventually John had enough and asked his friend to stop it. Nick had just shoved the article in John's hands and commanded him to read. The soldier in John had obeyed and looked down at the printed words. He had only caught the answer to one question before he remembered that he didn't want to know.

_You faked your suicide. Certainly you are aware that you hurt your friends in doing so?_

_SH: It was never my intention to hurt them. What I did was necessary to protect those close to me. I saw them grieve for me. But I'm still convinced that the world is a better place with them alive, even when they are in pain._

Despite his anger at Nick for his methods, the words had affected him. It was sentiment. Sentiment – one of those things Sherlock had never understood. John didn't know why but those few words eased away some of the pain he had felt. He knew they were genuine, even if he had tried to convince himself that Nick had glossed it over. As if Nick's professional attitude would ever allow it. He hadn't read the rest of the interview, hadn't even admit catching those few lines, just to prove a point to Nick, but it was damn nice to know that he meant at least something to the genius.

Nick's attempt had been pretty straight-forward. Mycroft had opted for his usual cloak and dagger routine. John had found himself another time in one of those black cars heading to somewhere Mycroft thought appropriate. They had met at the college where he had shot the cabbie. Obviously the British Government didn't think subtlety would work. Mycroft's method of abducting him instead of simply calling had always irritated John. This time he simply concentrated on the anger, ignoring what the other man tried to say. Besides it was his usual stuff of caring about Sherlock. And what about him, John was tempted to ask. But he was afraid of one of the typical Holmes explanations that didn't leave room for anything else than agreement. So he remained silent, literally biting his lips and clutching his hands.

Although none of those encounters had an immediate effect, they weakened his resolve. Why could nobody understand his position, why were they all trying to resume his old life. He wasn't okay, he would admit that, but after everything that happened, nobody should expect it from him, right? Clearly he needed to talk to somebody else, somebody who had only his interests in mind, somebody who had never met the detective. So he stood here again in front of Ella's office and was reminded of his past visits. Of course only the 'PTSD sessions' after Afghanistan had taken place here in an official building provided by the British Army, the 'Sherlock sessions' had been in her private practise.

She had asked why he had come. Well, she had always asked this. As if he knew. Silently he stared at the empty shelves in this office. He had always wondered why they were empty. Did she never think about decorating the room? Suddenly he was aware that he hadn't spoken to her. It was harder than he had anticipated. This was weird, because talking to her after Sherlock's 'death' had been hard. Talking to her now should be easy. He decided to start with Sherlock's 'suicide'. Of course, she knew how he had felt back then, but he wanted to give her the whole picture. He told her about the graveyard, about the nighttime-visits, about his nightmares and about his decision.

"Am I irrational?"

The question covered only one part of his state of mind. Probably the more important one would have been 'Am I right?'.

"Do you realise that you got a unique chance?"

God, he had forgotten her habit of answering questions with questions. He couldn't stand it, why couldn't she simply give him an answer. That was the way a dialogue should go. You ask a question, you get an answer. Not question back.

"Yes, I am."

"No, I don't think you are."

What was that supposed to mean? He was aware that people usually didn't come back from the grave, what had this to do with anything?

"You told me that your friendship with him was special." Her tone told her she was trying to be patient with him. He didn't know about her success with the trying part, but he could see his failing at the horizon. Clearly this hadn't been one of his brightest ideas, he thought irritated.

"Obviously it wasn't."

"Yes, it was", she contradicted. "You told me that. He had never tolerated anyone else, only you. I don't know him, but that sounds to me like something special for both sides."

How could she judge a friendship if she had only heard one side? Obviously Mycroft had been right about her, she was incompetent.

"But he lied to me." He tried to explain.

"Have you asked him why?"

He hated to admit that he hadn't. First there was no time and later he had been too angry to listen.

"He … He wrote me a letter."

"What did it say?"

"I don't know. I've torn it."

This was technically right. He had torn it, he had binned it. But on the day when Sherlock had informed him that he wouldn't contact him anymore, he had come home and retrieved the paper shreds. They were in a plastic bag in his desk. He had taken them out almost every day, wondering if he should try to read it.

Judging from the look Ella was giving him, he should. The sudden sadness in her eyes made him uncomfortable. But her tone was entirely professional, when she gave him her advice:

"He is the only one to answer your questions. You need to talk to him."

Now she was doing it too. Telling him to talk to Sherlock. The worst part of it was that she was probably right. He had never given Sherlock a chance to explain. But he hadn't been in the state to talk to the man, he still wasn't. He had been sure about his decision. It had been hard and it had hurt, but he had been sure. He was still sure that his reasons for ending any contact with Sherlock were valid. John knew he wouldn't survive a second time. If there ever was a second time, a traitorous voice whispered. What if there never was?

This was dangerous territory. Thinking of ‘what if’s.

 


	9. Chapter 9

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Kaminski?" John asked the middle-aged woman when he entered the room. He had operated her husband's cancer-induced ileus two weeks ago; William Kaminski hadn't woken up since then. John knew from the nurses that his wife had stayed in the hospital the whole time, barely leaving for the cafeteria, only when her daughter forced her to.

"I'm fine. I was just thinking about the day we met, how young we were. He always said in 50 years we would sit on the veranda of our house and watch our grandchildren play in the garden. He wanted to look for the perfect house at his next birthday." The doctor suppressed a sigh. They both knew that Mr. Kaminski's chances to wake up were slim to nonexistent, so there would be no next birthday. At least none with him looking for houses. And in the unlikely event that he would wake up there was still the cancer. But she wasn't able to let him go. Not yet. It was not uncommon and a feeling he could perfectly understand.

He checked Mr. Kaminski's vitals, before he asked her. "How did you met?"

"Oh, it's a long story and you are surely busy." John could sense her need to talk to someone. There was nothing he could do for her husband, but he could listen to her, could remind her of better times.

"Not too busy to hear a nice story of two people falling in love."

That got him a chuckle. "We didn't fall in love right away. He was such an arrogant bastard back then." She smiled at the memory, but it didn't reach her eyes. "We were working in two separate firms that shared the same parking space. One day I accidently opened the door of my car too wide and put a dent in his car. He shouted abuse and got me to pay for the repair. God, I was so annoyed. How could anyone care so much for a car? From that day on I parked as far away as possible from his car. Some weeks later, it was the week before Christmas, I had to work overtime. When I came out only a few cars were on the parking space. Well, I tried to start mine but the motor didn't do anything. He came around and offered help. First I didn't want to, but it was late, it was almost Christmas and it was so damned cold. He tried to start it himself and when it didn't work he offered to drive me home. On the way home he asked for a date and when I agreed he kind of abducted me and drove me to an Italian restaurant. It was one of the nicest dates I ever had. He even apologised for the car thing."

She laughed a little before her eyes tenderly turned to her husband.

"So you got yourself a nice Christmas present?"

"Yeah, my very own Christmas miracle." Her faces returned to him, her voice suddenly serious. "I know what you doctors say. But miracles happen. I know that miracles happen." Her eyes were pleading now, begging him. As a doctor he shouldn't believe in miracles, but he had seen soldiers survive whose lives were hanging by a thread. He had also seen the other way – patients with good chances who suddenly died. And of course, there was his personal experience. When death had been just a magic trick. He hadn't the heart to crash her dream.

"Yes, miracles can happen in medicine. Sadly they do so very rarely. That's why they are called miracles", he said gently.

"I still can hope."

"Yes, there is always hope", he agreed before he left the room.

Maybe not always. He hadn't hoped when Sherlock died, he had simply been desperate. He had never expected the other man to come back, despite his begging at the graveyard. He had seen the body, he had felt no pulse. He had been at a funeral; there was no reason to hope. But Sherlock was back. His morning session with Ella was still on his mind, the realisation that he needed to talk to him. He couldn't move on when there were still unanswered questions. But he feared that he wouldn't be able to move on when he finally got his answers.

He thought of Mrs Kaminski. She refused to let her husband go, to give up hope. And he was pretty sure she would trade one miserable year of her own to get him back, to get the house with the veranda and the grandchildren. Sometimes life wasn't fair. He mentally shaked his head, he really shouldn't start projecting his patients' lives on his own situation.

"I really should stop this." He realised too late, that he had talked out loud.

"What should you stop?" a familiar voice asked. John looked up and recognised Lestrade. He had blood on his suit, but appeared unharmed.

"Projecting my patients' lives on me", he answered distracted before he inquired. "Why are you here? You alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine. It's not my blood. It's Sherlock."

Suddenly everything stilled and he could hear the strangeness in his voice when he asked sharply "What is with him?"

"Nothing serious." Lestrade immediately tried to calm him. "Just a cut on the arm and on the head, maybe a concussion. He needs stitches."

"Where is he?"

"Room 3."

* * *

Sherlock watched the nurse disappear through the door back in the main area of the A&E. His head hurt and his arm needed stitches, but he wouldn't rank himself the highest priority at the moment. But apparently dripping blood was bad for the other patients' moral and arriving with a police escort obviously qualified for his own examination room. Lestrade hadn't come with him, probably searching for John.

John. Sherlock knew it was one of his shifts today. He had asked Lestrade and the ambulance drivers to go to another hospital, but their bloody regulations didn't allow it. As if the few minutes more to St. Bart's would have done any harm. Well, he hoped John had a surgery right now, although judging from the main area the night seemed low. Only minor injuries and diseases that wouldn't need the attention from a surgeon like John. But that didn't mean that not something worthwhile had appeared earlier.

It was not that he didn't want to see John, but the doctor had walked away from him, torn his letter apart and made it so abundantly clear that he never wanted to be near him again, that it was better to pretend he was busy than imagining that he denied Lestrade's request to look after Sherlock. And once Lestrade had returned he would know which was right. There was no way of not knowing.

Fully prepared for the DI returning with bad news, it took him quite by shock when John opened the door. Deep blue eyes flickered over him, resting temporarily on the cut on his forehead and the bloody bandage on his arm as well as the torn part of his suit trousers. Sherlock tried to speak, but somehow he only managed a creaking sound. He swallowed hard and tried again.

"John, I didn't want to come here. I asked Lestrade to go for another hospital. I know you don't want to see me…" He stopped, out of breath, waiting anxiously for John's reaction.

But John simply nodded, before organising everything he needed for the treatment on a small tray. He carefully removed the bandage, dabbed off some blood drops, before he gave Sherlock a local anaesthetic and started cleaning the wound. Sherlock watched the whole proceedings, mesmerised by the steady hands. It wasn't the first time John had to stitch him up, but with how things stood between them, it could well be the last time.

While waiting for the anaesthetic to work, John attended the cut on the forehead. It didn't need stitching, only cleaning, probably the cut wouldn't even scar. It wasn't until John returned his attention to the arm before he spoke:

"Why didn't you let me come with you?"

Sherlock stared incredulously at John. The answer was not so easy – John wouldn't have been safe. But danger had never stopped them before. Why hadn't he summoned him? Thoughtfully he chose his words.

"I wanted you to be safe. And as I said certain people needed to believe that I was dead. I didn't think you could fake it."

John looked up at him, for the first time really meeting his eyes without the doctor-attitude between them.

"I never cared about being safe. You could've come earlier, telling me after the funeral. Anytime. I could have helped you."

_I could have helped you._ The words resonated through Sherlock, coming back with force. Yes, the doctor could have helped. Sherlock had missed John, had missed his way of thinking, of giving the right cue on time. He had missed the calming effect the doctor always had on him, had missed speaking to him. He still had talked to him, sometimes loud, sometimes only in thoughts. He had never thought how it would have been having the doctor with him. He seldom enjoyed 'What if'-scenarios. When he had thought of John, he had imagined him in Baker Street, in their flat. It had been a home to return to.

"John, you couldn't just disappear. It would have been suspicious. You were watched. I couldn't risk it."

He had risked John's life before. But there had been other lives at stake, other people he … he cared for.

"We could have faked my death, too. I could have jumped from a bridge or something."

Sometimes the doctor was simply irrational.

"John, it would have to be believable. Why on earth would you commit suicide?"

There was a funny glimmer in John's eyes before he glanced back on the arm. When he answered his voice sounded sad.

"You really don't get it. My best friend jumped from a rooftop and let me watch it. What did you think this would do to me apart from the authentic crap?"

Sherlock exhaled sharply. He had seen the evidence, had known that he had hurt the other man very deep, but he never anticipated how deep. He had never really understood emotions, only seeing them as a motive of some sort. John had been his translator of emotions, of sentiment. John who was obviously so full of them. Caring so much about a sociopath that he wanted to kill himself. If John had done it, how would Sherlock have felt? He briefly pictured himself at a graveyard, staring at John's name in golden letters on a tombstone. Almost immediately he shied away from it. The thought alone made him nauseous, that was nothing he wanted to explore any further. And he had done this to John. There was no way John would ever come back.

"I never anticipated that it would affect you so much", he admitted. After a moment of hesitation he dared to ask: "Will you forgive me someday?"

Was it right to ask the question? Or was it 'bit no good'? But he needed to know. Needed to know that he hadn't destroyed the best man he had ever met. He could live without him in his life, but he needed to know that John Watson was out there and maybe forgiving him someday.

"Sherlock, you were the most important person in my life. I would have died for you."

Past tense. John spoke in past tense. Sherlock felt panic rising, but before he could inquire what that meant and beg John to tell him what he could do the door was opened almost violently. A nurse ran in.

"Dr. Watson, we need you. A new patient. Car accident, he's crashing."

Without hesitation John left him again, not quite running, but nearly. Rushing out he ordered the nurse to finish the stitching on Sherlock's arm. Again, he didn't look back, his mind clearly on the new patient, leaving Sherlock with more nauseating panic and more unanswered questions.

_I would have died for you._

What did that mean? Well, he knew what it meant literally. He also understood the sentiment. But what was its meaning when it came to them, to Sherlock and John. He ignored the poking at his arm and on his head, revising John's last statement over and over again.

_I would have died for you._

He tried to ignore the wording, concentrated on the intonation, on the subtext. Was there any subtext? Pondering on John's last words, something occurred to him.

_I would have died for you._

As I did for you.

* * *

It had been a shock seeing Sherlock and actually talking to him. Ella had been right, hell, everybody had been right; he should have talked to him first before walking away. Sherlock had been gone when he came back, maybe shocked by John's declarations, maybe simply to do the paperwork with Lestrade.

John took the plastic bag from his desk drawer and emptied it on the table. Carefully he retrieved the letter pieces from the envelope before he began his puzzle. It took him twenty minutes to get everything in order, another twenty minutes to fix everything with cello tape, but he managed it. He looked at the complete thing for several seconds before he started to read.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

_Dear John,_

_I owe you a thousand apologies. One for every day I haven't told you I'm alive. One for every day I haven't asked you to join me. And one for every nightmare you had because of me. This probably means that I owe you 1,095 apologies, but I sincerely hope that you weren't haunted by nightmares every night._

_I don't know what I did to deserve your friendship. It is the one mystery I was never able to solve, but please know that I'm thankful for every second in your presence. You made me a better man._

_A man who would have jumped from a rooftop for his friends – even without the plan securing his survival. You were right – friends protect people. And what I did was to protect you. You and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. I endangered you all by caring about you. This is what makes caring a disadvantage, but somehow I find myself not resenting it. Even if I have lost the most valuable thing I had – your friendship – I believe it was worth dying._

_I'm aware that I caused you great pain by dying and by not telling. Maybe I shouldn't ask for forgiveness, but please allow me one more time to take advantage of your caring soul._

_I would be entirely grateful if you could one day talk to me again._

_Sincerely yours_

_Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

John Watson was a stubborn man. It was one of the reasons he had survived in Afghanistan when he had lain in a pool of his own blood asking any deity who might listen to him "Please god, let me live." He had been too stubborn to die. It was one of the reasons he had refrained from suicide – once after his return from the war and once after Sherlock's death.

His stubbornness had helped him living with Sherlock, through the insane times of the other man's boredom or his experiments. It kept them both grounded, because he refused joining in the whirlwind, reminding the detective of social necessities and regular meals.

And his stubbornness was the reason why he was back again on the graveyard in the dim light of the early evening. He wasn't afraid of ghosts or the dead, having seen the battlefields of Afghanistan and London as Mycroft had once so eloquently named them. And he had his own demons to fight with.

He stood once again in front of the black stone with the golden letters. Normally when he made a decision he went with it until the end. Normally. Was there ever a moment when his life had been normal with Sherlock?

Standing in front of an empty grave was one proof of it. The other man had always been exceptional. John had read the letter several times. It was strange reading those praising words from Sherlock who normally appeared so cold and detached. But it healed some of the bleeding wounds of his soul and he knew the others would disappear with time.

He remembered the injured Sherlock at the hospital. Sherlock had looked fragile, frighteningly thin and dark shadows under his eyes. He wasn't taking care of himself. Well, he had never been particularly good at taking care of himself, but obviously he was now neglecting his body's needs entirely.

The small line of blood on the side of his face had made him look even more vulnerable. This may be the case because this reminded him of the last time John had seen blood on the pale face. The image of Sherlock's lifeless body on the pavement had popped up for one second, before he dismissed it.

But the most terrifying thing had been Sherlock's desperate apology. The Sherlock he remembered wasn't fragile, wasn't vulnerable, didn't apologise and certainly wasn't desperate. But the man in front of him had been clearly afraid of John's reaction. John had hurt the detective; he hadn't thought he would be able to do so.

It was a strange sensation – an odd mixture of relief and regret. He was relieved that their friendship hadn't been as one-sided as he had feared in the last weeks. It was the final proof that Sherlock cared, that he wasn't a machine, that he really was the most human being John had ever known. And as a human being he would be hurt. There was a time when John had wanted to hurt the madman, making him feel how it had been for him. It seemed that he had succeeded without really intending to. He had only intended to guard himself from further pain.

It was time to make another decision. John stared at his image on the stone. This time there was no other figure joining him, but he remembered the feeling. The shock, the joy, warm arms embracing him, holding him. With a last glance he turned, leaving the graveyard.

* * *

Sherlock gazed through the lens of the microscope before exchanging the slide.

"Thank you Jo… Molly."

He felt Molly still for a moment before she continued to prepare the slides. They had worked in silence for the past hour, which was something Sherlock was thankful for. He could have easily analysed the soil samples in Baker Street, but working in the empty flat had lost its appeal. Working at St. Bart's with the assistance of Molly resembled some kind of normalcy, some kind of 'before'. And Mrs Hudson was happy that he didn't destroy any furniture.

The first meeting with Molly had been awkward. Sherlock hadn't been sure how she would react, but when she attempted a hug, he hugged her back.

"You are alive." She had sounded relieved, had looked at him with watery eyes, before she released him, stepped back and tried to look calm.

"What do you need?" Realising the last time she had asked him this, she blushed. "I mean today. You probably don't want to fake your death again." She had tried to fake a laugh, before closing her mouth.

That was the moment when he had wondered if he should do something more, offer her something more than a hug, but she had seemed fine with the situation. And so he had simply asked for access to the lab. From that on both of them slipped back in their old routines, although he had stopped his usual remarks. It was a relief that at least something in his life had been easy to fix.

"I could talk to him."

Sherlock looked up, eying her carefully. He had learnt that she was far more observant than he had given her credit for. Maybe her infatuation with him had impaired the judgement; it was hard to evaluate someone correctly when every look could be misinterpreted. He had taken advantage of that, too, but he hadn't paid her enough attention to learn more about Molly Hooper. Another mistake not to make again.

There was no need to play dumb, they both knew who 'him' was. His mind easily provided him with pictures from the afternoon – John evaluating him, John stitching him up, John letting his doctor mode slip. He still hadn't received an answer if the doctor could forgive him, but he had decided not to ask for one. He could live without the knowledge, he was afraid knowing the answer would be much harder. And he had promised John to stay away from him. Admittedly he had broken this promise, but it was hardly his fault that NHS regulations were regarded more important than keeping promises. As far as he could see there was nothing that could be done at the moment, so what would Molly do? He was curious.

"Why would you talk to him?"

"Explain everything. Apologise."

"There is no need for you to apologise", he pointed out. She had helped him; she had done so on his suggestion. It had been his plan all along. Everything that happened was clearly Sherlock's fault. Why would she feel the need to apologise?

"There is. He was so sad, so hurt. And I could have helped with that. I should have helped with that." He heard the regret in her voice. Molly hadn't a cruel bone in her body, of course she would care. How had he managed to surround himself with so many caring people? How had they found him? He asked himself briefly, before returning his attention to Molly.

"Then everything would have been in vain. You don't have to apologise, Molly. Your actions saved him. My actions hurt him."

"But …" Sherlock interrupted her. "No, Molly. You have done enough."

For a moment Molly looked as if she wanted to say something more, but then she simply nodded.

"I … I get more slides."

Sherlock watched her leaving the lab. He wasn't sure he had talked her out of the idea to talk with John, but he hoped so. The detective had no idea how John would react to Molly. He had been so angry when he learnt that Molly had helped, so it was probably for the best if a meeting of those two could be avoided as long as possible. This could be quite difficult since both of them had the tendency to do what they thought to be right. Well, there was nothing he could do at the moment.

He turned back again to his microscope, concentrating on the samples at hand and barring any thoughts about the mess in his personal life. Taking another slide and adding more notes to his description of the experiment, he wondered what took Molly so long. Ah, there was the lab door. He didn't looked up, when he registered the familiar footsteps. It took him a moment before his brain realised that something was wrong. This wasn't Molly.

He glanced up. John. John who eyed him carefully, looking at the plaster on his forehead, looking at his arm. The bandage was covered by clothes. It had been only some hours since he had seen him the last time, but something had changed. John appeared nervous, but at the same time calmer, more settled, almost as he had been before everything. Sherlock waited, unsure what to say. They stared at each other, their eyes locking – grey eyes meeting blue ones.

After what felt like an eternity, John stated to speak:

"I make tea when I need to calm myself. I nag other people about their eating and sleeping habits. I shoot bloody awful cabbies. And sometimes I don't talk to my best friend."

Sherlock could only stare. What did this mean? Could it be … He didn't dare to move, he had no idea what John wanted him to do.

The doctor had looked at him expectantly, grimacing when it became obvious that Sherlock wouldn't answer.

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other", he explained.

John was reliving their first meeting, their first meeting in this lab. When Mike had introduced them. Did this mean John would come back? Sherlock didn't dare to believe it, watching the other man carefully when he checked:

"You want to come back." It sounded more like a question than he intented.

"Yes. I want to come back." John sounded sure. There was nothing insecure about him, even the initial nervousness had disappeared.

Slowly Sherlock allowed a smile to appear. Somehow the world seemed brighter than before. When he saw John's left hand massaging his neck, his caution returned. There was more.

"Listen, Sherlock, um, I'm sorry about what I said. I should have talked to you before. And I should have read your letter earlier. But you had hurt me."

"You have torn the letter." It was an accusation and it was a declaration of hurt. Sherlock saw the regret in John's eyes, but finding the paper shreds had been devastating.

"I taped it." As a proof he held up a piece of paper. It had been clearly torn apart and neatly fixed. "And I've read it." He paused for a moment. "I accept your apology if you accept mine. Just one thing, Sherlock. Promise me one thing: Don't you ever leave me again."

John apologised to him. It didn't seem right, Sherlock had hurt him before. But he wouldn't argue with John about something like that. Not when the other man had decided to forgive him.

"I will not leave you again." Sherlock intended to keep this promise, but the last days had taken their toll. "Can I ask the same of you?"

John looked surprised but then he simply nodded: "Yes."

For a long time Sherlock could only look at John, their eyes meeting each other. He felt himself smile again. And when he saw a similar smile on the other man, his own grew. Finally, finally, everything would go back to 'normal'.

"Dinner?" He asked.

"Starving."

 


	11. Chapter 11

"Tell me again, why am I here?"

John Watson looked at Nick and couldn't help but grin. The journalist was covered in paint splashs and even had a white stripe on his cheek. But John was certain he sported a similar look. They were painting John's flat – the one he had rented after Sherlock's 'death' – as part of an agreement between John and his landlord. In return the man would terminate John's contract prematurely.

"Nick, I'm pretty sure I asked you to help me with the painting."

"Yes, you did." The journalist admitted. "Let me rephrase my question: Why is your current flatmate not helping?"

"You want Sherlock to help with the paint?" The horror in John's voice was only half faked. He still remembered very vividly one week with Sherlock experimenting on paint and blood and the effects of tinting on blood patterns. "Besides, as soon as he stops harassing Greg, he will be bringing food."

"You don't trust him with paint, but you trust him with food?" Nick looked at him incredulously. John just shrugged. "He knows every take-away, and half of them owe him something. So we usually get extras or meals for free."

Nick kept on staring for another minute, but then obviously decided to let the matter drop and picked up his paint brush. They worked in silence for a while until the journalist asked the question John had actually expected from the beginning of their painting session.

"So, how are the things between you two?"

But, although he expected the question, John didn't know how to answer that. In a way, it was hard to explain because it was the same as 'before': Sherlock was still infuriating, impossible, demanding, mad, brilliant, amazing … and _alive_.

So he settled for the answer that covered everything in his opinion: "It's all fine."

Nick's face was a mirror of utter disbelief. "I hope you realise that I need more. The man jumps from a damn rooftop for you. You refuse to speak to him and now everything is 'all fine'?"

"Are you asking as a friend or as a journalist?" John saw the flash of hurt and immediately regretted his remark. But moving back to Baker Street also meant the return of the journalist troops attempting to get his side of the story.

"No, I'm just a friend using his journalist skills to ask about a friend."

"Look, I'm sorry; the media people in the last days were a bit crazy. But Sherlock and I, we're fine, we really are." John almost saw the question marks over his friend's head. "Okay, the first days were a bit weird, but then we clicked back together. So, all is indeed fine."

The first three days had been indeed downright weird. They both had tiptoed around each other, being overly polite and considerate, offering each other tea, biscuits and whatnot. John had caught himself several times mentally shaking his head and even Sherlock looked a bit lost at the situation, but they both had been unable to stop it. Too aware what they nearly had lost, too aware how close they had come to the edge.

It took a wild chase after a thief through London's alleys, leaving them breathing heavily against a filthy wall and grinning madly at each other. They had celebrated the successful ending of this case at Angelo's with the obligatory candle. John caught himself looking at those grey eyes as if he saw them for the first time and couldn't help himself as he blurted out aloud: "God, you're alive." And without his usual scolding for stating something so obvious, Sherlock just confirmed. "Yes, I am."

As if only that had to be said again, the tiptoeing stopped. Sherlock started several experiments which involved some explosives and heavy fumes, while John continued to nag him about his eating habits and not helping with the chores. There was only one thing that changed. They both checked regularly the other's whereabouts. And they both made sure to text the other current locations. Even now, he had already received three texts simply stating 'Still at Scotland Yard. SH' and 'On my way. SH'

He even found himself entering Sherlock's bedroom during the nights, just to see the other man sleeping. He knew that the Detective was aware of John's nightly visits, but since the Doctor had woken up several nights with Sherlock staring down at him, everything was alright. Neither of them mentioned this in the mornings.

And John wouldn't mention it to Nick. He didn't believe that the journalist would judge him for this, but this vulnerability was so raw and something so private between him and Sherlock. So he just settled a little helplessly for "I think we are both still a bit shaken, always looking where the other is."

For a moment, it looked as if Nick wanted to ask for more, but then he simply turned to the job at hand. John was grateful. Grateful that he didn't need to explain this, grateful that they had managed to stay friends throughout the years. Grateful for the support during the last months.

"I never thanked you. For … what you did … Believing me … Believing in him. Clearing his name."

"He did. He thanked me." Nick obviously noticed John's surprise and chuckled. "Oh yes, he informed me that it was good I did all the work for him so he hadn't to do the tedious deed himself."

"He didn't." John's remark was met by a huge grin. "He absolutely did." – "That it so typical", complained John before he couldn't fight his own grin anymore.

"So, he informs you that clearing his name is tedious. And you want me to let him paint. What do you imagine would he think about painting?"

"I think it's pretty dull", a familiar baritone announced. When John turned around to greet his friend, he found the smile in Sherlock's voice mirrored in his face.

"That's why I didn't ask you to help", John answered while doing the now obligatory check whether Sherlock was alright. Their eyes met for a moment, but the moment was disrupted by Nick.

"Oh good, the great detective himself, I hope you remembered the food, I'm starving here, I'm not used to such hard work."

"I can see that. You have gotten more paint on you than on the wall", Sherlock observed.

"John looks the same", the journalist defended himself.

"I'm a doctor, not a bloody painter", John protested.

"No, don't start with the Star Trek quotes! I still have nightmares about Kandahar." Hearing Nick's exclamation John couldn't help but start laughing. Although a small part of John's brain wondered how Nick could possibly have nightmares about this evening in Kandahar, since it only involved lots of booze and, yes, lots of Star Trek quotes, even some role playing if remembered correctly. A larger part was amused by the memory, the questions in Sherlock's eyes and the detective's complete disregard for pop culture. But the biggest part of him was just happy to be here, to be actually able to laugh about Afghanistan and more importantly to laugh with Sherlock. When he finally was able to speak again, he managed "You may like Spock. He also came back from the dead", which got him another questioning look and another fit of giggles from Nick.

Sherlock watched the two other men with a something akin to amusement and fondness, a far cry from his usual superior demeanour. John and Nick were just calming down when a text alert turned Sherlock's attention to his mobile. Instantly his eyes lit up.

"John, a text from Dimmock, he found two bodies in an abandoned warehouse. Apparently one was stabbed and the other was hung. Let's go."

It didn't even occur to John to refuse the request. He grabbed his jacket and followed the taller man when he heard Nick's protest "Hey, I'm not finishing this alone." John was about to apologise when he heard Sherlock's voice who was already halfway down the stairs: "You don't need to. The landlord has an affair with Mrs. Miller from 3b, he will be happy to keep his secret and to do the paint job himself."

"How could he know that?" Nick inquired. John simply shrugged; he had stopped wondering about such things a long time ago. "No idea." He took a bunch of keys out of his pocket. "I know I'm awfully rude, but can you just put the lids back on the paint and lock after you?" He could see a resigned smile on his friend's face – it was not the first time since he had moved back to Baker Street that John was leaving unexpectedly early – and hear the muttered "Yes, I see, you run after him to look at dead bodies. It's indeed all fine." John simply smiled. He couldn't agree more.


End file.
